


Party Favors

by Zasa



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur is a sad boy, Eventual Smut, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, This was only supposed to be five chapters, it spiraled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zasa/pseuds/Zasa
Summary: Dutch gets clingy and Arthur secretly loves it.Takes place in chapter four.





	1. Chapter 1

Moving into Shady Belle had afforded Arthur a luxury he'd never had in camp: four walls and a working door all to his own. 

Dutch too had a room - the master where Arthur watched that raider shoot himself in the head, blood and brain matter soaking into the wallpaper above where Dutch would, just hours later, sleep.

Even with the walls between them, Arthur had seen more of Dutch than he had in nearly a year. Dutch was always by the coffee pot when Arthur crept out of the house and into the early morning mist, mug half empty, a cigar in hand which he would share if Arthur glanced at it. They would talk until the other early risers began trickling from their tents, leaving Arthur with his lungs full of smoke and his heart hammering. 

Dutch kept asking him to go riding, just to see the sights of Saint Denis, to the point that Arthur thought they'd seen every inch of that wretched place twice over. But Arthur didn't mind. He only had to pretend that he did. 

"Ms. O'Shea is gonna have both our hides if we keep runnin' of like this."

Dutch had gone still at that, wisps of a willow tree dancing around his head, ducks settling on the smooth surface of the pond. They had pulled into the park to give their horses rest and to hunker out of the sun. It was noon, and also the seventh straight day Dutch had dragged Arthur to the city for no reason at all.

"I haven't seen her in a week. I think she finally got the hint."

"You don't mean that, Dutch," Arthur said, striking a match on the sole of his booth and lighting a cigarette just so he could avoid the hollow look in Dutch's eyes. "Maybe we should look for her. She might be in trouble."

"If I find her, she'll come back. I think you and I both know it's time to let her loose."

Arthur wasn't so sure, had never been sure of Dutch's rules when it came to excomunicating members of their ragtag family. Still, it was obvious Molly or Dutch would end up doing something stupid if they kept in each other's company. Their fighting had gone from backhanded insults to all out screaming. In a way, it broke Arthur's heart. In another, Arthur knew Dutch had brought the trouble on himself. He had adored Molly at one point in time, had showered her in gifts and affection for the first six months of their relationship. How he hadn't realized that she would despise him for changing on her once she was far from home and trapped in America, Arthur hadn't a clue. He supposed Blackwater really had changed everything.

"That why you're spendin' so much time with me? Got no one else?"

Arthur didn't miss the glare Dutch shot him, even with his eyes on the end of his cigarette. Dutch ripped it out of Arthur's mouth and took a sharp drag from it.

"I'm spending time with you because I missed you. Is that so hard to believe?"

Arthur looked abruptly toward the pond, far away from Dutch, and Dutch laughed around the cigarette before holding it back toward Arthur. 

"I've been right here the whole time, Dutch," Arthur said, the bite of it burying his embarrassment well enough to convince anyone. Anyone but Dutch.

"I know, son. I know you have. You always got my back and I'm sorry for thinking otherwise. For letting my paranoia and Molly drive us apart."

Arthur took a puff of the cigarette, overly aware, as always, that Dutch's lips had been where his were now. He didn't much care for Dutch's early morning cigars, but he lived for the briefest contact he had with Dutch's lips. In many ways, his unhealthy obsession had been the driving force behind his urge to quit smoking altogether. But it turned out Dutch was more addictive than nicotine. That's why Arthur knew Molly would be back.

*

Of course Dutch had Arthur meet him and John outside Bronte's mansion. This time Arthur didn't hide his pleasure at being invited out with Dutch; he was ready to ring the neck of the man who had taken Jack. 

And of course, as was customarily Dutch's defense when he couldn't use bullets, Dutch had made a friend out of Angelo Bronte. Dutch told him of the party they'd been invited to on their way back to Shady Belle, Jack and John in tow. 

He didn't for a minute think he was the proper choice to go. But that night, out of earshot of those still celebrating by the fire, Dutch had approached Arthur and took the beer out of his hand. Arthur watched Dutch's lips wrap around the mouth of the bottle, watched Dutch's throat work as he swallowed. Arthur was too drunk to stop. Dutch handed the beer back to Arthur, his eyebrow quirked.

"You alright there, Arthur?"

"Mighta had too much."

Dutch grinned. "I can tell. Thought you swore off drinkin' since I bailed you outta jail in Valentine."

"You know me. I swear off everything just so you and Hosea can bust my balls when I go back to it."

Dutch's laughter warmed the alcohol in Arthur's stomach to a near-unbearable degree. He thought he might puke but took another gulp of beer anyway, shutting his eyes to better picture Dutch's lips on the same bottle. 

"You love hard, Arthur. There's no doubt about that. But all the things you love are the worst things for you."

That was an understatement.

"Speaking of Mary..."

"Aw, Dutch, I don't wanna talk about her. I threw her last letter in the fire, okay? I've moved on. I...I'm tryin' anyway."

A flash of surprise shot across Dutch's face before he could hide it. He nodded. "Well...I'm relieved to hear it. Listen, I'd like you to come with me to the Mayor's party."

"Oh, God. Are you drunk too?"

"Slightly. What's the issue?"

Arthur dropped his empty bottle to the grass. "Besides me lookin' like...lookin' like..." He waved at himself, indicating everything from his hair to his clothes.

"I'll be buying you a suit."

"You...why?"

"So you can look the part. Same reason why I'm buying one for Hosea and Bill."

"I dunno, Dutch. We got people who are way better at gettin' information than me. Smarter people. Classy people. Maybe Abigail--"

"I want to take you."

Arthur's stomach lurched. Alcohol was good at twisting reality, at giving false hope to anyone who dared to seek happiness under its spell. But Arthur's heart still picked up speed as Dutch held his eyes, stepping close enough for Arthur to smell the beer on his breath.

"Let me be selfish, would you? And let me take you."

Arthur tore his eyes away. "Fine."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I am so sorry for the delay in an update. Everytime I tried to write this chapter the words just didn't come out right.
> 
> Your all's comments have kept me going. Thanks for the love and support!

Saint Denis was hot enough without all the extra layers, but Dutch had them trying on suit after suit, each of them sure to make Arthur sweat like a married man in a busy brothel by the time the party started. He had grown hopeless after the third suit. Nothing looked right, and the reality that even an expensive suit couldn't made him look half decent was a crushing blow to his already bruised confidence. No matter what he put on, he would still have the same face and body God had cursed him with. 

Dutch knocked on the dressing room door. "Any luck, son?"

Arthur cracked the door and Dutch took one look at his face before pushing his way into the cramped room. Dutch had already found and donned a suit that fit him like a glove, had taken a moment to twist his mustache and slick his hair. Arthur couldn't figure out why the mix of those two things was making his heart sink, except that Dutch looked like a million bucks and Arthur was just a shabby, sunburned fool in a costume.

"I look terri--"

Dutch's hand tugged at the tight fabric around Arthur's crotch, shutting him up. Arthur held his breath, warmth seeping between his legs, muscles tensing with all the hope and dread that Dutch would touch him and mean it.

But Dutch pulled back to crack the door open and shout for the tailor. "These are too tight in the crotch for him."

From the other dressing room, Hosea called, "atta boy, Arthur!" and Arthur pivoted toward the mirror in hopes Dutch wouldn't catch the searing red that had shot up face. 

But Dutch moved to catch Arthur's reflection, arms coming around Arthur's sides to straighten his suit jacket. "Come on, Arthur, this is supposed to be fun. We're crashing a part of elites. Making friends in high places." Dutch leaned in toward Arthur's ear, a rush of hot breath making Arthur suppress a shiver. "And we're gonna con every one of 'em."

He couldn't exactly let slip the gindiness he felt at Dutch's body so close to his, so he covered it with anger. "I hate playing dress up."

"Not dress up. Just sprucing you up a bit. It's still you under all this, isn't it?"

Arthur opened his mouth to disagree when the tailor tapped on their door, Dutch swinging it open and grabbing the offered pair of dress pants. "Can you get him a smaller shirt too?"

The tailor nodded and was gone before Arthur could stop him. He looked at Dutch. "Smaller?"

"You've gained more muscle since we've been on the run. Shame to hide it."

Arthur didn't think his face could burn hotter. Was he serious? "Dutch, you can't hardly see the shirt."

"Trust me on this, would you? And try these on."

Arthur took the new dress pants, waiting for Dutch to leave but finding the older man leaning up against the wall instead, waiting.

Arthur turned his back to Dutch and stripped, feeling eyes, feeling panic, getting angrier the hotter he got. His union suit was tight in the crotch too - tighter than usual, and Arthur prayed to the same God who cursed him that Dutch wouldn't see the tent in the fabric.

The tailor returned just as he got himself covered, passing Dutch a shirt before leaving. Dutch didn't meet Arthur's eye as he handed him the shirt, something sharp snapping in his Arthur's chest. Was Dutch that disgusted? That hopeless too? 

He shucked the clothes off his back and threw on the new shirt, fabric squeezing his chest muscles as he began buttoning it. He imagined how Molly would look had she been around for Dutch to bring. Surely a beautiful woman with a plunging neckline would get someone talking faster than Arthur could. He could almost imagine her sidling up to a group of oil barons, ignoring their ravenous glances to giggle at their crude jokes. Dutch would watch her from across the room, grinning and proud. He'd take her into their room at Shady Belle afterwards and peel the dress off her--

"You look perfect, Arthur."

Arthur's hands fell, making way for Dutch's. He buttoned Arthur's shirt the rest of the way, fingers leaving a trial of heat where they scraped. Arthur kept his eyes down, grateful for the inch Dutch had on him in height. He was sure his face was saying everything he never wanted Dutch to know.

"I mean it. You should dress up more often."

God, it had been way too long since Arthur had been with anybody, more evident by every wild thought Dutch dragged out by doing absolutely nothing. It was making Arthur paranoid, making Arthur think Dutch was messing with him before realizing the absurdity of that idea. Arthur pulled away, tucking his shirt into his pants when he saw Dutch move to do it.

Dutch had an unreadable look on his face when Arthur looked up again, buttoning his vest and slipping into his suit jacket. Dutch's eyes dropped just for a moment to Arthur's chest. Arthur's mouth went dry. His union suit grew tighter. He never liked whorehouses, but he was beginning to think he'd have to visit one soon just to get Dutch out of his head.

Dutch's eyes widened, mirroring Arthur's, as if they'd both been caught doing something bad.

"Let me see you, Arthur," Hosea called, breaking the silence and pushing the door open. He whistled. "Lookin' sharp. Who knew he had it in 'im, eh Dutch?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, faking a lopsided grin. “Surprised you can still see, old man.”

“Somewhat, sure,” Hosea said. “Not well enough that I have to go hurl in the bushes after lookin’ at your face, luckily.”

Dutch laughed, and if Hosea notice the shakiness in it, he didn’t mention it, so Arthur didn’t either. He simply scooped his tattered everyday clothes off the floor and brushed elbows with Hosea as he left the cramped dressing room. Lenny, sitting on a short ottoman and dressed to the nines, perked up.

“You look like you’re paid well for a coach driver,” Arthur said, his grin genuine this time.

Lenny snorted. “Well, I let’s hope I make up for Bill over here.”

Bill shot around the corner. “I can hear you, ya know.”

“Just makin’ sure, since I told you three times those pants are too short and you kept them anyway.”

“Jesus, Bill.” Arthur nearly flinched at Dutch’s voice just behind him, instead freezing until Dutch moved past him. Hosea flashed Arthur a strange look as he fell in behind Dutch. “Please tell me you haven’t paid for that getup yet.”

The tailor crept around the corner and quickly passed Bill a piece of paper. “Your receipt, sir. And, just to remind you, sales are final.”

Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose and the tailor scurried back to the front desk.

Bill crumpled the paper in his fist. “Well, I didn’t think it right to keep everybody waiting like Morgan here. And besides, the man says this is fashionable in France.”

“I guarantee you, Bill, it isn’t.” Dutch patted Lenny’s shoulder, prodding him to his feet. “Come on, boys. We’re late.”

Arthur chewed the inside of his lip. His nerves were shot and his general and sexual frustrations were reaching a point that usually meant extra bar fights wherever he went. He rubbed at a knot in the back of his neck before grabbing his worn boots and following Hosea toward the door. Dutch stopped at the front desk and motioned for Arthur to join him.

“You picked a very fine suit for him, indeed, Mr. O'Malley," the tailor was saying, plucking a stack of bills from Dutch's hand.

Arthur snagged the tailor's wrist. They were struggling for money and Dutch was handing over enough to feed them all for a month. 

"Arthur?" Dutch said.

His grip was getting slick. The tailor leaned away, reaching for something hidden beneath the counter. Dutch hand went for the pistol hidden beneath his suit jacket. 

"Is there a problem?" The tailor asked.

Arthur looked at Dutch. "You can't spend this much on me."

Dutch relaxed, lowering his hand. "Let the man go, son, before we get in /another/ gunfight. We don't want the man dead, do we?"

The tailor froze, but Arthur imagined he already had the weapon in hand that he'd been reaching for. Still, Arthur couldn't let it go. Couldn't let the tailor go while knowing he was thousands of dollars richer from selling a bunch of back country fools some suits. 

"This much? For one night?" Arthur shook his head. "That could get us--"

"Son, let the man go."

Arthur stared at the money. Judging by the tremor in the tailor's hand, he was around thirty seconds away from shooting.

"It's my money, Arthur," Dutch said. "Not the camp's. Let the man go."

Arthur finally did, fingers aching, the tailor likely to wake with a peppering of bruises the next day. Arthur held Dutch's eyes, nauseated by the flash of disappointment in them, until the tailor thrust a receipt across the counter and told them to never come back.

Night had fallen but the air was still thick, hot, and humid. Across the street Hosea and Bill were settling inside the coach while Lenny climbed onto the driver's bench. Dutch paused before crossing, shoving the receipt into his pocket. A trolley was slowly inching down the street and Arthur would have walked straight into it if Dutch hadn't been there. 

"I'll pay you back," Arthur murmured, angry at himself for making a scene, for holding everyone up, for potentially ruining Dutch's plan and Dutch aware of the fact. 

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I'm just worried."

"I know you are."

"I'm tryin' hard to get you the money you think we're gonna need to get to Tahiti, and I don't wanna be undoing all the things we did to--"

Dutch placed a hand on Arthur's lower back, startling him into silence. "I wanted to bring you. I wanted to buy you a suit. I wanted you to stop worrying and enjoy the night. I worry enough for all of us, so just stop it and have fun with me."

Arthur's throat cinched shut. What did he mean by that? Nothing, Arthur decided just as quickly as he wondered. It was obviously nothing. His brain was still fried from all the chaos that had ensued in Rhodes, was all, and he was just overthinking every little thing. But something about the way Dutch had said it...

Dutch bent toward a flowerbed filled with blooming white flowers. Picked two. His face had paled when he turned back to Arthur, jaw working under the skin. Arthur's heartbeat thrummed in his ears. The trolley passed. Hosea called for them.

Dutch looked at the flowers. At Arthur. At Arthur's suit pocket. Then he spun toward the coach and hurried across the street.

Arthur was shaking when he climbed into the coach, drenched in enough sweat to feel like he'd swam through the swamps to get there. The only place to sit was next to Dutch. Dutch was popping one of the flowers into Hosea's suit and the other into his own. Arthur's hands kept slipping as he tried to shut the door, eventually succeeding. He settled into the seat, Dutch's body a fire beside his own.

"Well, Dutch, I didn't take you to be such a romantic," Hosea joked.

Arthur went rigid, choking on his own spit and covering it with a cough. Maybe his mind wasn't making such giant leaps after all.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hosea, Bill, you join the party. We'll meet you out back after we pay our respects to Signor Bronte."

Arthur's mood had picked up thanks to champagne and a few good laughs on the ride over, but then Dutch's eyes watched Arthur a little too long as he handed his gun over at the front gate, and all his frantic thoughts came flooding back, multiplying even further as Dutch sent the other two away.

He followed Dutch up the stairs, disgusted and awed at the mayor's mansion - lacquered floors, marble accents, gilded artwork, and enough rooms to house all of Valentine. Dutch said there'd be no stealing, but Arthur couldn't help but imagine how much he could get just for swiping one tiny vase that the mayor probably wouldn't even miss. He felt sick. That too grew worse as they listened to Bronte rattle on. Dutch kept glancing at him, the discomfort on his face increasing with each one. Arthur could hate with a ferocity that unnerved himself even on good days, but it seemed Bronte hated everyone with every cell in his body without much reason besides thinking himself better than them all. A phycopath turned rich and capable. 

"Well, uh, it has been wonderful conversing with you, but I can tell that you are very busy and I won't waste anymore of your time."

Arthur swallowed a sigh of relief. If he had to hear Bronte say one more thing he was going to jump off the balcony, give the fine folks downstairs something to really talk about. Then of course, as they moved to leave, Bronte had to mention screwing cows. He looked straight at Arthur as he said it, and for a moment Arthur hoped and feared Dutch was going to jam his cigar into Bronte's eye, likely would have if they were anywhere else besides in view of a hundred people, because the look on his face made Arthur's blood run cold. 

"I'll show you to the party, gentlemen. If you'll kindly follow me," their escort said, backtracking to shut a cracked door before they got to the stairs. Dutch halted and Arthur stopped on his heels, feeling Dutch's gloved hand snag his fingers and squeeze. Arthur was too stunned to continue walking once the escort continued, Dutch releasing him to follow.

"Dutch?" Arthur croaked once they were at the back door, but there stood Hosea and Bill, and the next thing he knew, Dutch was telling them to mingle.

The part Arthur had dreaded. 

He strolled off the porch and into the crowd, taking a flute of champagne and downing it like a shot. He felt eyes on him, turned to see Dutch slowly shake his head - a warning. Don't do something stupid like that again, it said. 

Something stupid, like holding a man's hand? Arthur wondered, turning away before his expression could turn shift into the scowl he felt coming. 

He did as asked, ingratiating himself each group, offering compliments, nodding his head, laughing when prompted. It was, dare Arthur hope, going well. And then he met Algernon Wasp. The man was choking alone by a refreshment table, and Arthur, overcome with a rare streak of confidence, tugged the man against him and slapped him hard on the back. Algernon studied Arthur, wide-eyed, thanking him for saving his life. The words caught Arthur off guard. Had he really saved a life as easily as he usually took them?

Algernon passed Arthur a business card. His line of businesses didn’t seem to be of much use to the gang, but Arthur tucked the card away, promising to come visit his shop sometime. 

“Let me get you a drink, Mr...?”

“Callahan. I’m okay, but thank you.”

“Nonsense. I owe you much more than a drink I’m not even paying for. Allow me.” He reached past Arthur, waving a waiter to their side and taking two glasses. These looked to be actual shots, and Arthur took it without any more complaint, downing it, a smile crawling to his face as the heat of liquor slid down his throat and spread into his stomach. 

“Good man,” Algernon laughed, doing the same. He placed the empty glasses on the waiter’s tray before grabbing two more, handing them to Arthur, and taking another two for himself, nodding the waiter away. Arthur spotted Dutch at the other end of the courtyard, talking to someone Bronte had pointed out. Hosea was laughing with some older gentleman. Bill was looking like a rabbit amongst a pack of wolves.

“I’m not usually one to risk inebriation on nights surrounded by the high class,” Algernon said, “but I’m feeling particularly alive right now, thanks to you.” He raised one of his glasses. “To new friends, Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur clinked his glass against the other, grinning wider. In retrospect, he would pretend Algernon’s glance across his body had been nothing more than an accident, but at the time it warmed Arthur as much as it had the drinks. It was the combination of the two that made Arthur say, “Call me Arthur.”

Algernon’s eyes lit up. “Yes, of course. Arthur.”

Arthur was surprised at how easily the conversation came, how willing he was to speak without filter. It reminded him of Albert. Of all the ways Arthur had hinted to Albert that he was interested, only for the man to always tell him to go on ahead and leave once the picture was taken. Arthur was never surprised by it, but he’d be lying if he said by the third time it hadn’t hurt. He thought perhaps a man like that, a little more worldly than the people that inhabited the surrounding towns, would give him the time of day. Or night. But Albert never seemed half as interested as Arthur. Again, no surprise there.

But Algernon kept glancing at Arthur’s lips, kept leaning close when he had something more to say, and Arthur kept drinking it in like he’d been given water in the hot, dry hills of New Austin even though he knew by tomorrow he’d convince himself that it had all been his imagination. 

Arthur laughed, really laughed for the first time in he wasn’t sure how long, and titling his head back to let it out, he saw Dutch again. Saw Dutch looking at him. Glaring at him. The laughter died. Algernon followed Arthur’s eyes.

“Friend of yours?”

Arthur nodded. Took a drink. 

“Is he bothering you?”

“No more than usual.”

“Forgive me if I’m reading this wrong, but sometimes people hate men like us because they’re just the same.”

Arthur nearly choked. So it was obvious then. Arthur was never sure if he simply didn’t give off the right vibe or if people just ignored him as a way of rejection. Seemed it was the latter after all. Arthur smiled into his glass. “He’s...not like us. Loves the ladies too much.”

“So do I. Sometimes.”

Arthur nodded. “Well, I just mean he...he goes through ‘em like they’re a dying breed or somethin’. The last one he had was the longest one he kept, and even that was just under a year.”

“You’re a relationship type man, then?”

“I have a bad history with one night stands.”

“Well,” Algernon leaned in, hand clamping around Arthur’s for a brief moment. It reminded Arthur so much of Dutch that he found himself searching for him again, but he was gone. “If you’d like to get out of here, I’d be happy to take you to the theater before I undress you.”

“Arthur.”

They both jumped, pulling apart like a gun at went off at their feet. Dutch had crept up behind him, arms crossing and eyes boring into Arthur’s soul. For the first time in years, he felt like the kid that Dutch used to discipline, small and unruly and deserving of all the rage he saw now. But, this time, Arthur was only doing exactly what Dutch had asked of him.

“Jesus, Dutch. What?” Arthur rubbed at the whiskey he’d spilled on his suit jacket.

But Dutch didn’t answer. His attention was on Algernon, and he looked even angrier. Arthur hadn’t thought it possible. 

Algernon raised an eyebrow at Arthur, a serene smile pulling at his face despite the hell Dutch’s expression promised. “You have my card, Arthur.”

Arthur hated himself for being unable to reply before Algernon walked off, unable to look away from Dutch even as the man’s cold eyes landed back on him. “I told you to talk to the mayor.”

“You told us to talk to everyone.” 

“And it seems to me you’ve only been focused on one person at this entire party.”

“We were just havin’ a chat. That’s the point of this, ain’t it?” Arthur’s fury was ebbing into anxiety, seeing Dutch’s own fury only grow. He had screwed up somehow. Had maybe been too obvious with Algernon. But Dutch had to know about his...his eagerness to be with whomever despite what was between their legs. When he had been young, dumb, and always horny, he’d say things that he hadn’t realized were wrong until Dutch and Hosea told him to stop. It was the last time they ever brought his weirdness up. It was for his safety, they said, and he trusted their reasoning. 

Maybe Dutch had forgotten until now. Maybe he thought he outgrew it.

“I-I’m sorry,” Arthur said, wondering if Dutch’s views had changed since he was young, or if it was never about Arthur’s safety and just the fact that Dutch and Hosea were disgusted by it all. “I’ll go now.”

“Arthur, wait.” Dutch’s voice had gone soft, but Arthur was too afraid to look back, to listen to anything else Dutch had to say, especially when he had a feeling it was the whole safety lecture all over again. He sat his latest drink on the refreshments table and dove back into the crowd. 

Hosea must have saw something he didn’t like on Arthur’s face, stepping away from his current group to stop in Arthur’s path. Arthur wound around him, head down and hand up, a flag of surrender. Hosea stopped following only when Arthur slid into the group of men around the mayor. 

He did his job proper, even going as far as to manhandle a drunken fool off the premises just so the mayor would keep talking. The only thing he didn't do that he should have was let Dutch know that his favorite writer was at the same party. He was still too annoyed to try. He planned to avoid Dutch until Lenny drove them back to camp. 

But then there were gunshots. No, Arthur realized as the sky flashed red. Fireworks. He couldn't help but tilt his head back and watch them. 

A gloved hand was back on his, releasing it as soon as Arthur looked. Dutch kept his eyes on the sky but spoke loud enough for Arthur to hear over the pops and cheers. 

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur, as if reverting to his younger self in reply to Dutch's childish treatment, almost refused to accept it. Almost said nothing. But Dutch was reasonably tense from the past couple months of running, and Arthur supposed he had indeed spent too much time bathing in Algernon's attention. 

"Me too," Arthur eventually said. "I was just..."

How much did he want to admit? On the off chance Dutch hadn't caught the flirtations, he figured it best to keep it vague.

"I was just havin' fun, I guess. Like you said you wanted me to. Job should come first though, I know."

Dutch turned his head, their noses just a few inches from touching. "I said I wanted you to have fun with me."

Arthur swallowed hard. He didn't remember ever being this close to Dutch - this close to his lips. 

"Mr. Cornwall was quite insistent, I'm afraid."

The name tugged Arthur's attention to the servant speaking off to his right, watching as he pulled the mayor from his group. He was saying something about a phone call, and the mayor began comparing someone to a horse's ass.

"Did he just say something about Cornwall?" Dutch whispered.

"Yes."

"Find out what."

"Sure."

They split apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouraging comments! 💕


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur trailed the servant all the way back to the upstairs room that their escort had locked, where Dutch had first taken Arthur's hand and...

He needed to keep Dutch out of his head or he was going to make a mistake. Or go crazy. Both would have ill effects on the rest of the evening.

He leaned against the wall, listening to the gentle thump of footsteps retreating deeper into the room. Going quiet. Arthur risked a glance through the crack in the door and found the office empty. He slipped inside, glancing over the desk before deciding the locked drawer was the first place he should look. The lock broke under the press of his knife.

He unfurled the papers and someone burst into the room.

Arthur spun, reaching for the gun that wasn't there. Dutch threw up his hands. "Just me," he whispered.

Arthur had an urge to argue. Did Dutch not trust him to get the information? Did he really think no one would notice two men sneaking upstairs? Dutch was going to get them caught, but you better believe he would find a way to blame Arthur.

Instead, finding his aggravations coming more from their earlier interactions rather than this, he simply passed the papers to Dutch. 

Dutch barely glanced at them. "You're driving me crazy, Arthur."

"Well, that's strange, 'cause all I've been doing is talkin' to folk like you asked. Didn't know I was gonna have to be dodgin' your mood swings too."

Dutch slapped the papers on the desk. "You don't understand."

"No, I guess I don't," Arthur growled. "But I know we're gonna get caught if you don't keep it down."

Dutch pushed the door shut without taking his eyes off Arthur. "I thought I was being clear." His voice came gentler this time, but there was still something wild in his expression. "Guess I'm rusty. Or overthinking things. Or...or you're just not interested."

Arthur looked around the room, thinking he must have missed something. "Interested in what?"

Dutch dropped his face in his hand. "In me."

Arthur's joints locked. Suddenly he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. What the hell did the mayor lace Dutch's champagne with? 

"You?" Arthur finally croaked. He couldn't help it. Laughter exploded from his chest. Dutch actually flinched, but Arthur thought this too was part of the charade. "Goddamn. I thought you was serious for a second. You always were a fine actor, Dutch. Too fine for your own good."

"Right," Dutch said into his palm. He rolled the papers in his other hand, stuffing them in his jacket, head down and turning before Arthur could catch his expression. Something wasn't right. 

Arthur slapped a hand to the door before Dutch could open it. "You were kiddin', right?"

"Of couse."

"Then why ain't you lookin' at me?" It was far too much to hope for. Arthur had spent too many years longing for the men of camp. He'd finally realized nothing like that could happen in such close quarters without someone finding out. Dutch would never risk his reputation. Abigail would never let John live such a thing down. Javier could pull a knife and kill in seconds flat if provoked, and Charles...well to be honest, Charles seemed too good to be touched by the likes of Arthur. Only Dutch had the capacity to be as cruel as Arthur. Only Dutch seemed like the best option. But it was also only ever Dutch that had steady relationships, all with gorgeous women who were too good for him. Asking him to lower his expectations and take Arthur to bed felt like begging for rejection. 

But Dutch finally met Arthur's eyes, his filled with fury. Arthur stepped back. 

"Arthur, you idiot," Dutch snapped. "Why in the world would I ever joke about something like this?"

"I...I dont know."

Dutch closed the space Arthur had made between them, snagging the collar of Arthur's shirt and shoving him against a shelf. "All the trips to Saint Denis. All the talks by the fire. All that stuff in the dressing room? You think I'd go that far?"

Arthur's throat went dry. So all that nonsense with the suit had been intentional. And the flower... 

Arthur gulped at the knot in his throat. "Is...is this a date?"

"Yes!"

Terror ripped through him, followed and fought by butterflies. Neither seemed to win out. He was pinned in place by both Dutch and the urges to kiss him and run from him. 

"But..."

"I know," Dutch said, quieter. "I know it seems sudden. It isn't. I promise you that. I just...feel like maybe it's time, time for me to accept my desires."

A wave of warmth flooded Arthur's stomach. Desires was a strong word. A shaky grin flashed across his face. "You could have told me."

Dutch sighed. Looked at the door. It was a wonder they hadn't been caught yet. "Everytime I try to explain it, I can't conjure up the right words."

"You?"

Dutch mirrored Arthur's smile. "Don't patronize me, Arthur. This is embarrassing enough."

"So instead of coming right out and sayin' you wanna jump my bones you thought I'd get the hint if you took me to Saint Denis a couple times?"

Dutch released Arthur's collar. "Admittedly it does seem foolish to assume you'd understand nuance."

"Seems foolish to assume you gotta court me." Arthur tilted his hips toward Dutch's, the fabric of their dress pants just barely brushing. He was aware that he’d told Algernon the exact opposite. But this was Dutch, a man he’d known for twenty years, a man who would be worth the troubles of a one night stand. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

Arthur grabbed Dutch by the vest, yanked him closer. Their noses brushed. Their hips connected. Dutch sucked in a breath. "Is it so hard to believe I wanna do right by you?"

"Seems strange is all." Arthur glanced at Dutch's lips. He had wondered for so long what his mustache would feel like on his skin.

"I care about you, Arthur. And whatever happens, whatever you do and don't want outta this, I just need you to remember that. I'd go crazy if I lost you."

"You're already crazy."

He couldn't take it anymore. He tugged Dutch over the last gap of space between them, locked their lips together, Dutch's eyes going wide before fluttering shut, before his hands raked down Arthur's back. Dutch's facial hair, turned out, felt incredible. Just knowing that the rough texture was Dutch brought a low moan from Arthur's chest. He parted his lips, feeling Dutch's mouth open in reply, feeling a tongue flick across his bottom lip before teeth took hold of it. Arthur moaned louder, face hot, a stiffness growing in his pants. Dutch shoved him harder against the bookcase, the whole thing rattling, biting and licking Arthur open, sending his tongue deep into the welcoming heat. It was going to be a fight, Arthur realized, as to who would take whom.

Arthur growled, trying to worm out of Dutch's grip without breaking the kiss. Dutch canted againt him, Arthur melting against the friction, melting further as Dutch's fingers gripped his ass. Dutch pulled away, lips red and swollen, a breathlessness to his voice.

"We can't do this here."

Arthur nodded in agreement before pushing Dutch toward the desk and lifting him by the thighs to set him atop it. Dutch grunted in surprise, Arthur silencing him with his lips. Arthur leaned into him, forcing Dutch to his back and a jar of fountain pens to go clattering across the floor. He pulled Dutch's legs apart and slotted himself between them. 

"You were jealous," Arthur said suddenly, lips grazing Dutch's. "That's why you sent me off to the mayor."

Dutch locked his hand into Arthur's hair, pulling hard, tilting his chin back so Dutch could get his teeth on Arthur's throat. Arthur swallowed a gasp, but the moan that followed couldn't be contained, Dutch biting hard enough to bruise and his hand sliding past Arthur's waistband. Dutch's nails cut deep lines across Arthur's backside, one lone finger slipping between. 

Arthur froze, knees going weak at the sensation. Dutch bit him even harder, fingertip breaking into the tight muscle, dry and rough. Arthur's knees did buckle then, leaning all his weight onto Dutch. The desk croaked.

"Damn, usually I'd get slapped for something like that," Dutch purred. There was no way his finger was going any deeper, and no way it wasn't hurting Arthur as much as it was pleasing him, so he simply held it there. It was Arthur who kept trying to grind into it. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Maybe I want you to hurt me."

Dutch removed his finger, getting a hiss from Arthur. "Well I don't want to hurt you. Ever." He released Arthur's hair to plant a kiss into it. "I've waited a while. I think I can manage a little longer. We can't do this here."

Arthur puller back, flushed with shame. There was a promise in Dutch's words, but he feared he'd gone too far, said too much. Dutch had no problem promising good times and then sending his marks away without fulfillment. Molly was the most recent example of that - promised a better life only to get trapped with a bunch of outlaws causing trouble in every town they crossed. This would probably be no different.

Arthur pulled off Dutch, straightening his suit as an excuse to keep his eyes down. Before Arthur could turn toward the door, Dutch was on his feet, wrapping a hand around the back of Arthur's neck and pulling him into a much gentler kiss. 

"I like seeing you like this," Dutch said, breaking the kiss to look down Arthur's body, fist clenching like he was having to restrain himself from touching the tent in Arthur's pants. "Come to my room tonight."

"Yes, sir." Arthur stole another kiss before creeping toward the door, easing it open and scouring the hall. It was empty. The Mayor's servants hadn't heard them, as unbelievable that seemed. But that didn't mean Hosea and Bill didn't notice their disappearance.


	5. Chapter 5

The more Arthur had to listen to the rich folk chatter, the more he drank. He'd already had too much if his actions had been any indication, and he could only assume Dutch was drunk too. He had to be. Losing Molly had made him desperate, and drink had made him impulsive. The two was an ugly mixture, and by morning Dutch would pretend nothing had happened. Arthur would be just another mistake, as he was with all the people he'd been with. He supposed it was lucky he and Dutch hadn't gone further. The less to regret, the better. 

The party was winding down. Dutch was keeping his distance. Algernon attempted to reignite their earlier conversation, but Arthur felt too drunk and too empty to reciprocate. Long ago, he had promised Dutch and Hosea he wouldn't rely on alcohol so heavily, but there he was, grabbing everything off waiters' trays and gulping it down. When the waiters began avoiding them, Arthur took to drinking whatever was left abandoned on the tables or on the railings or even on the ground. 

Hosea kept an eye on Arthur the entire ride home, Arthur swallowing hiccups and every unfiltered thought that his body kept trying to regurgitate like the very poison it was. He was a mistake. Unlovable. He was just a tool to be used and then let go. 

"You're drunk, Arthur," Dutch said.

Hosea sat up straighter as though Dutch proved his suspicions. 

Arthur waved a hand, opening his mouth to argue. Besides drinking and fooling around in the mayor's office, that was his first mistake. "'m fiiine."

Williamson rolled his eyes. "I thought you was actin' strange, Morgan. Might as well have brought Uncle with us."

Bill was like a tiny dog with a big mouth - annoying but harmless. Even then, Arthur felt the overwhelming urge to slam Bill's head against the coach and throw him into the dirt. All he had done the entire ride was complain about how uncomfortable he'd been, as if Arthur was a proper conman as the other two and knew what the hell he was doing. He had no idea. And at least Bill hadn't been rutting up against their leader. It would take a lot more drinks for Arthur to forget that. And Dutch...Dutch never would forget, he feared, and for the rest of their lives it would be something that Dutch could hold over his head if need be.

Lenny stopped the coach just outside of camp, hopping down and opening the door like a proper chauffeur. "Have a good time, boys?" he asked, the smile that usually pulled one out of Arthur visible in the moonlight. 

No one said a word, not even Bill, at least not until he was pushing past Lenny to get out of the coach. "Come on, kid. Ain't nothin' fun gonna be happening in here."

Lenny spared one last glance across the remaining three, Arthur with his eyes on the floor, Dutch and Hosea with their gazes fixed on Arthur. "Right," he said, shutting them inside.

"Arthur, what the hell is goin' on with you?" Hosea snapped. Usually his anger was reserved for people like Sean, but Arthur supposed with Sean gone, he needed a new vent. Arthur had been such a good target when he was young and unruly. Now, it almost seemed unfair to see Hosea's wrath directed at him all over again, like he hadn't changed at all. "This was supposed to be fun, and still you just spent the whole time moping."

Arthur's hands curled into fists. "I--"

"I don't even wanna hear it. You know as well as we do what you're like when you're drunk. You coulda hurt somebody. You coulda got the lawmen called. We could all be hangin' just because you drink too much when you're sad and now you're sad all the damn time."

Arthur looked up, startled. Hosea did not talk to him like this, not even when Arthur had nearly gotten the older man killed during a botched robbery some years back. 

"Hosea," Dutch began, as if seeing the pain Arthur felt. 

"It's because of that Mary woman, isn't it? Those letters she's been sendin' you. I know when you've been out to see her, because everytime you come back, you start drinkin'."

Dutch stopped his protest, mouth gaping just enough for Arthur to catch in the corner of his eye. 

"You...been readin' my mail?" Arthur hadn't meant to whisper it, but all his strength had vanished at that name. 

"That one up there on your table? I was the one she handed it to, to pass along to you. And I almost threw it in the fire, but I thought maybe you'd learned from her last letter. And before that I thought you'd learned when she got engaged to another man, rubbed it in your face, and then kept your ring. She ain't worth it. Ain't worth the pain and heartache she puts you through. She sure as hell ain't doin' anything besides manipulating you from what I can tell."

"What'd she say?" Dutch asked, nearly as quiet as Arthur had been. "In the letter?"

"Nothin' good," Hosea answered, knowing Arthur would lie, would stand up for her until the end, claim every backhanded jab was justified just because of the life he lived, as if the woman had never any clue as to what he was until using it against him was a means to an end.

Hosea clasped Arthur's fists. "I know you love her, even still. Even if you don't wanna admit it to yourself. But you're my son, and seeing you hurt pains me, Arthur. Seeing you drink because you think her opinions are the only ones that matter terrifies me. Look at you, the most handsome devil I've ever seen don a suit - no offense Dutch - and yet you spent the whole time at the tailor's fussing and griping and talkin' down on yourself. It's always been her behind that self-hatred, always starts when she comes back. But damn it, Arthur, she's wrong about you. I wish you could see that." 

Arthur unclenched his fists. Hosea squeezed. "I'm sorry I yelled, son. I'm real sorry. I just don't wanna lose you. Especially not because of her. I miss the Arthur that I know is inside you, the one that gets excited about life and jobs and doesn't let setbacks guide him toward the bottle."

Arthur said nothing. Couldn't. Whatever he was feeling was right on the border of rage and sorrow. He's either scream or wail, and he dared not do either, even drunk.

"I'm sorry," Hosea said again. "I understand if you're upset with me. I'm upset with me too, for raisin' my voice when you're...while you're..."

What, Arthur wondered, still mourning the loss of the only person that ever loved him back? Was he? What it always Mary in the back of his head saying every self-deprecating thing he thought? Had the things in her letters and the parting phrases she left him with really stuck with him that much? Did he hate himself before her? He couldn't even remember. 

Arthur stared at his hands as Hosea pulled away to pop the door open and slip into the humid night air. "I'm goin' on to bed, I think."

Hosea left the door hanging open as if expecting them to follow, but Dutch was frozen in place, and Arthur feared that moving would stir all the wild thoughts Hosea's comments had momentarily eased.

"Do you..." Dutch cleared his throat, but his voice was still all gravel. "Do you still love her?"

"No," Arthur said out of habit, but he wasn't so sure. After all, he had come everytime she called, had did as she asked, had taken her cruel comments and accepted them as truth. If he believed her word to be that of undeniable truth, then he must have loved her, at least a little. "Maybe," Arthur admitted, throat raw. 

"I...understand," Dutch said, sliding out of the seat, leaving Arthur chilled despite the heat. Dutch stretched just outside the coach door, eyes cast toward Shady Belle and the people that Arthur could hear singing around the fire. His voice held a note of sadness totally unlike the jovial song ringing through the air. "I suppose it clears things up somewhat." He looked back at Arthur, face hidden in shadow. "Get some sleep."

"Wait," Arthur seized Dutch's arm, nearly falling on his face to get him before he vanished. "I still wanna...I still..." Arthur let his other hand trail down Dutch's chest. Dutch stopped his hand before it made it to his belt.

"I don't wanna screw you like this, Arthur."

Like this. The phrase rang through his head, each echo cutting deeper into his heart. He was a drunken fool, a fool holding onto the memory of a woman who had long since changed into someone else. Dutch slipped out of Arthur's grip. Arthur let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to go very different and be the end of the fic, but this just kinda happened. Yay angst?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where Arthur is immune to whiskey dick :p

Arthur tripped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. His room was spinning. His stomach was souring. He was drunk, alone, and his head was full of goddamn Mary Linton. 

He kicked his table across the room, wood splintering againt the wall, map fluttering though the air. He spun toward his small shelf, grabbed Mary's picture, and hurled it against the floor. Of course he still loved her, some sick, self-deprecating part of him, to have kept her picture by his bed for all those years. What a fool he was, pretending otherwise, pretending he ever had to think about answering her call for help over and over again. He was no one, nothing except a tool. Mary's knight in shining armor, Dutch's right-hand gun. If Dutch hadn't been drunk then he had only been kissing Arthur to get something out of him. 

He swept the picture of him, Hosea, and Dutch off the shelf, dropped it on top of Mary's photo, and stomped them both. With every snap of shattering glass, he hated himself more. But he couldn't stop. Not until his door creaked open.

"Arthur, son, what are you doing?"

Dutch's voice brought him to reality. Arthur couldn't bear to look at him, looking instead at his likeness. Arthur had treasured that picture of the three of them more than any other material object he'd ever owned. And he'd ruined it.

Dutch eased up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Arthur stared at the picture, their stern faces torn and blotted with his boot print. Arthur felt his anger fizzle. He had no one to be angry at besides himself.

He kneeled, prying the picture from beneath the remnants of its protective glass. Dutch looked at it along with him. 

"I'm sorry," Arthur croaked.

"It can be fixed." Dutch said. "Just like anything else." He released Arthur to pick Mary's picture from the mess, setting in on the munitions shelf before using his foot to slide the glass into a neat pile. Arthur watched, numb with release. It slowly settled into his conscience that he had thrown a tantrum and Dutch was the one picking the table off the floor. Arthur grabbed him by the elbow and eased him out of the way. He righted the table, one of its legs breaking off and hitting the floor with a hollow thud. Arthur sighed. 

Dutch placed his hands over Arthur's. "Just lean it up against the wall for now."

Arthur finally met Dutch's eyes, letting him lead the way. Once the table was propped up, Arthur released it, but Dutch didn't take his hands from Arthur's, instead winding his fingers around them, holding loose enough for Arthur to pull back if he wanted. 

"It's okay if you need time," Dutch whispered.

"I don't."

Arthur tugged him forward, their lips colliding, rough and sloppy and all teeth. Arthur freed his hands, tangling them in Dutch's hair, pulling the man harder against him, wanting to die, wanting to get off, wanting Dutch to hurt him.

Dutch shoved Arthur's suit jacket off, reaching between them to pop the buttons of his vest. He opened the shirt at the throat, broke the kiss to lick up Arthur's collarbone. Arthur groaned, thrusting his hips against Dutch's hard enough for Dutch to lose contact. When he returned, it was with teeth.

The house was old, the windows that remained were thin and the ones that didn't admitted smatterings of song from the campfire. Someone was going to hear them, but Arthur, for once, didn't care. He moaned Dutch's name, and Dutch wrenched his belt open in response.

Dutch dragged him toward the bed, shoved him onto it and climbed on top, straddling Arthur's thighs, opening the fly of Arthur's pants and bringing him out.

Arthur tilted his head back, groaning at the feel of Dutch's skin on his, warm and rough, the breeze touching him where Dutch didn't, keeping him aware of how exposed he was. Exposed to Dutch. Hard and swollen in his hand.

"Do you want this?" Dutch asked, voice deep and quiet like it got when he was furious, but Arthur saw only desire.

"God, of course I do. Look at me, Dutch."

"I mean, do you want it from me?"

Arthur reached between Dutch's arms and palmed at the stiffness hiding in the man's pants. It made Arthur twitch. He had wanted to touch Dutch like that for so long. A moan broke into a whine as Dutch removed his hand.

"I want it from you," Arthur said. "Want everything from you. Want you to love me and beat me and hurt me and fuck me."

Dutch had moved himself lower, hard against Arthur's shin while his face hovered over his cock, pausing there to frown. Arthur thought Dutch was going to stop, thought he'd said too much all over again. But then Dutch whispered, "I ain't never gonna hurt you," and took Arthur into his mouth.

The sensation was shocking. His body was already burning hot, but somehow Dutch's mouth was like fire, wet and warm and striking every nerve. Dutch slid Arthur deeper, his throat tightening around Arthur's tip, Arthur gasping like he'd been gut-punched. He felt Dutch's nose settle into his pubic hair. 

And just like that, he came.

It was sudden. Brutal. His whole body twitching, his cock pulsing against Dutch's lips, rutting against the roof of his mouth. He clawed the sheets and curled in, stomach clenching, wave after wave of blinding pleasure ripping him apart from the inside. His voice got lost in a scream, returning only once Dutch was swallowing him and everything he shot out, the overstimulation heavenly and painful. He squirmed, finally breathing, heels digging into the mattress as Dutch pulled back with a pop.

Arthur went slack against the bed, chest heaving, cock aching, lightheaded and exhausted. Dutch crawled up his body to kiss him gently this time, his lips tasting of spend. Arthur reached for the tent in Dutch's pants, but Dutch stopped him. 

"Get some sleep." Dutch kissed him again, this time on the forehead. "I want you to remember it if we go further."


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur woke with a throbbing headache and an impending sense of doom. As soon as he opened his eyes, he regretted it. The morning sun felt like firepokers spearing through his eyes and into his brain. He groaned. Rolled. The squeak of his bed reminded him of something he couldn't pin down. Pain leaked into his neck. He leaned over the edge of the mattress and felt for his satchel, feeling instead the splintered remnants of a tantrum.

His eyes snapped open. 

Had Dutch...? 

A dream, he thought, all of it must have been a dream. But there was dread growing in his gut that told him otherwise. Dutch had...done things to him, and he had shot down his throat in less than a minute and fell asleep. He remembered suddenly reaching for Dutch before Dutch stopped him. Arthur had done something wrong. 

Of couse he had.

His face burned. He would have to leave through his window and wade through the swamp to get to his horse, a dangerous idea that was still less terrifying than seeing Dutch.

He sat up, head spinning, and took a breath to quell a sudden surge of nausea. He was in his union suit, buttoned up tight. His expensive suit was folded on his teetering table with its one missing leg. That had definitely been Dutch's doing. Arthur usually shoved his clothes into a chest without remorse, no matter how expensive they'd been. 

He tested the strength of his legs before releasing hold of the bedframe. He stumbled over wooden shards and a few stray shards of glass that were only obvious with sun rays draped across his floor. His satchel had been kicked into the corner by the munitions shelf. He was out of tonics. 

He rubbed his burning eyes, and when he dropped his hands, it was Mary that looked back at him.

Her picture at least, saved from any further abuse and resting by a case of rifle ammo. Arthur ran to the balcony and threw up over its railing. 

His whole body convulsed, stomach acid slpashing to the ground below, last night's food and liquor thankfully too far gone to resurge. But he kept heaving anyway, even once he was wrung dry, tears dotting his lashes, muscles aching, hands going white around the railing. 

A gentle hand pressed between his shoulder blades before rubbing up and down the ridges of his spine. Arthur kept his eyes squeezed shut, afraid his heaving and the worsening pressure in his head would make them pop out of their sockets. Finally his heaving ebbed into gags that ended just as his legs were growing too weak to hold him. He slid against the railing and to the floor, gasping.

"Jesus," Hosea said, kneeling in front of him. "You had more to drink than I realized." He had a mug of steaming hot coffee, tipping it under Arthur's nose. "Still want this?"

Arthur took it, desperate to get the acrid taste out of his mouth. "Thanks," he croaked. 

"A peace offering. I may have had more alcohol than I intended myself - the rich take their stuff strong - and I'm afraid I may have said some things that are none of my damn business."

Arthur managed a smirk againt the lip of the mug. "S'okay, Hosea. I was actin' like a fool."

"Oh, undoubtedly. But what you want to do for Ms. Linton is none of my concern."

Arthur stared at the rotting wood between them. "You're right though. She is usin' me. And I'm lettin' her."

Hosea settled beside him, pushing against the railing before deciding it safe to lean against it. "I understand, I do. It's just hard to watch you get hurt over and over again."

Arthur nodded. "I think you're wrong about one thing."

"Seems unlikely," Hosea joked. 

"I don't love her. Maybe I love the woman she used to be, the woman who I knew way back when. But Mary...she just ain't that woman no more. She's gone smart. Learned I'll never be anything but an outlaw."

"You'll never be anyone but you," Hosea corrected. "And if she can't accept that person, she doesn't deserve that person."

"She definitely deserves better, I'll give you that."

"And so do you. Don't mean there's anything wrong with either of you. Just means you two weren't a right fit. It's not uncommon for the first several months of a relationship to feel like perfection. It's how it feels after all the novelty has worn off that dictates success. Not that it's all sunshine and roses all the time, but being told to leave everything just to prove you love someone isn't a loving act. It's a manipulative one. And had you left us all those years ago, I imagine she would have still ended up marrying Mr. Linton, and you would have come back regretting more than you do already."

"Almost wish that was the case. Maybe she still wouldn't be in my head all the time. But I figured Dutch wouldn't have taken me back in. Probably coulda come back scot free if John's return was any indication."

"You know we wouldn't have abandoned you, son. It's different with you and John. Always will be. I think maybe you used that as an excuse to keep from giving your life to Mary, like maybe you knew even then you loved us more than you loved her."

Not for the first time, thinking of their tight-knit gang filled him with warmth. He would have missed so much had he left it for Mary, never would have met half the people that he now considered family. He would have been too ashamed to come crawling back when Mart inevitably got tired of him, even if Dutch and Hosea would have taken him back. 

"Bessie was always accepting of my choices," Hosea continued. "Find someone who accepts you, the way Dutch and I accept you."

Arthur swallowed his coffee down the wrong pipe, jerking forward to cough it onto the porch floor. Hosea was back to patting his back, harder this time. 

"Did I say something?"

Arthur shook his head. Hosea really had no idea what Dutch had been doing, taking Arthur away from camp on a daily basis, inviting him to a party, sneaking in his dressing room, groping him in the Mayor's office, pushing him to the bed and getting him off with his mouth? Arthur tingled with the memory. He knew Dutch would keep him a secret from most people, but he had expected there had been a conversation between Dutch and Hosea before anything began. The two kept nothing from each other. Nothing, it seemed, except this. 

Arthur coughed the last of the coffee from his lungs, helped Hosea to his feet, and retreated back to his room. He stared at Mary's picture, feeling his stomach hollow the longer he looked. He crumpled the picture in his hand and went downstairs. 

Of course Dutch was waiting by the fire just like every other morning, despite Arthur's late start. The left corner of Dutch's mouth quirked when their eyes met. Arthur managed to keep his stride steady, stopping only when the fire warmed his legs. He straightened Mary's photo, gave himself one last moment to remember the good times he'd had with her, and dropped it in the fire. Her face bubbled, morphed, and went black. The edges curled over her silhouette. Arthur glanced up at Dutch to see his grin had grown wider. 

"Want to ride to town with me?" Dutch asked. 

Arthur took the offered cigar and took a puff. "Sure, Dutch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's gonna, like, ...get it.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur could handle just about anything without flinching, but the ride to Valentine had him shifting and twitching and sweating, none of which could be blamed on the midday heat or the rough ride. They were pushing their horses faster than usual, their destination filling the horizon. Dutch intended to follow a lead Lenny found within the town, but promised Arthur a hotel room first and foremost. A hotel to...do what? His mind couldn't fathom, but just the bits and pieces that popped into his head had him straining against his pants. Dutch glanced over, eyes falling on what Arthur tried to hide by leaning forward in the saddle. 

Suddenly Dutch veered and Arthur's horse went along with it, pushed off the road by the Count and led up a rise into trees. Into Horseshoe Overlook. 

"Dutch, what are we doin'?"

Dutch didn't respond, slowing only when the land flattened and the trees cleared. Grass had grown over the bare earth their presence had made, outlines of tents no longer stamped down, weeds creeping over the ashes of their old firepit. 

Dutch dismounted, rushing to Arthur's horse and holding out a hand. Arthur took it without question, letting Dutch yank him out of the saddle and into his arms. Then Dutch's lips were on his, fevered and frantic, instantly joined by small swipes of his tongue, prodding Arthur open. 

Arthur's knees went weak, fingers gripping Dutch's shoulders tight to keep standing, mind quieting beneath a haze of warmth that surged through down his body, right to his crotch. He'd been drunk the first time they'd kissed. Being sober and doing it, feeling Dutch react as he kissed back, was like dipping into a tub of bathwater while it was near boiling. It felt so good it hurt. 

Dutch pulled away, popping Arthur's shirt open, heavy-lidded and panting. "I'm sorry, Arthur, but I can't wait any longer."

The words struck him in all the right ways. Dutch seemed to realize, reaching down to give Arthur a squeeze. Arthur sucked in a breath, fingers faltering on the other man's belt. Dutch pulled him by the open collar of his shirt toward the middle of their old camp, right where Arthur's tent used to stand. 

"I kept tellin' myself I'd slip into your tent one night." Dutch was back to working Arthur's shirt open, rough hands roaming his chest and stomach. "You always slept so close to me. Tempting me."

Arthur finally got Dutch's belt open and tugged his pants open, receiving a moan as his knuckles brushed the stiffness within. He trapped Dutch's lips against his own, using his teeth to keep him there, and slid his hand into Dutch's waistband, toying with the rough curls before finally wrapping around the hard length. They both moaned, Dutch in pleasure and Arthur in awe. He had Dutch throbbing in his hand and gasping into his mouth. It was a dream come to life, only better.

Dutch abandoned his exploration of Arthur's torso to pop the suspenders from Arthur's pants, tugging the fabric to his thighs. The breeze swept through Arthur's union suit, reminding him how close he was to being exposed. It had been different somehow in the dead of night.

He dropped to his knees and pulled Dutch from his pants, electricity charging down his spine at the sight of engorged and reddened flesh. Arthur took him into his mouth, unable to tease, to wait. He wanted to make Dutch scream. A hand worked into his hair. He lifted his eyes to see Dutch slack-jawed.

"Oh, fuck. Arthur. Feels so damn good."

Arthur had no idea what he was doing, but Dutch kept still, letting him go at his own pace. Arthur sealed his lips, feeling the ridges of veins throbbing against them, swallowing when saliva filled the back of his throat. Dutch let out a long, drawn-out moan, startling Arthur into stillness until it all dawned on him. He had Dutch's cock in his mouth. He was pleasuring the man he'd wanted for fifteen years. The sounds...Jesus. He swallowed Dutch to the back of his throat, eyes watering, chasing those moans.

Earning them. 

He rubbed himself through his union suit, twitching, rutting, choking. He gagged and Dutch pulled away, a trail of spit hanging onto the tip of his prick from Arthur's bottom lip. Somehow, he looked harder.

"On your side."

Arthur blinked up at him, tears drying at the edge of his eyes. Dutch slipped his pants the rest of the way down, stepping out of them, crouching to pull Arthur free of his. 

Dutch eased Arthur to the ground, laying him on his right side and joining him, feet to head, scooting until his face was level with Arthur's bulge. Arthur's heart hammered, Dutch's cock inching closer to his mouth as fingers worked Arthur free from his union suit. He felt button after button pop open, eye-level with Dutch's spit-slicked cock and swollen balls. Finally Dutch pressed a kiss to the tip of his dick and Arthur sighed, doing the same to Dutch's. There was something about it - knowing Dutch was feeling what he was feeling - that yanked him closer to climax than should be possible without the proper friction. And suddenly Dutch swallowed him down, sucking hard and fast and tight and Arthur tensed.

Dutch pulled back, voice gruff. "You okay?"

Arthur swallowed around the knot in his throat. "I could die happy right now."

Dutch chuckled, sinking down on Arthur slower this time, allowing him a clear enough mind to lean forward and suck Dutch down. They both moaned, thrusting, using each other's mouths until Arthur's skin was buzzing and his stomach wound tight. He was about to cum, about to pull off Dutch to warn him, when an arm draped around his left thigh and a finger prodded between his cheeks, wet with spit and slipping into the tight ring of his asshole. It always hurt, but knowing it was Dutch made the pain feel more like bliss, especially when it eased in deeper, closing in on that deep-hidden spot that would spark stars behind his eyes. 

Dutch popped off Arthur's cock, gasping for a breath. "Make me cum."

Arthur hollowed his cheeks, swirled his tongue, scraped his teeth across the most prominent vein. Dutch hissed hot breath against Arthur's dick, groaning louder and louder until suddenly it stopped. And then Arthur felt the cock in his mouth pulse, felt a hot spurt of cum hit the back of his throat. And then it continued, Dutch finding his voice to whisper Arthur's name as he fucked into Arthur's mouth through his orgasm. Arthur swallowed it all, tears breaking over his lower lashes to trail into the dirt. Dutch slowed his thrusts, chest heaving. He rolled to his back, slipping from Arthur's mouth and leaving Arthur empty and untouched. 

He took a minute to catch his breath, Arthur about to explode just from the sight of Dutch's abused cock dripping a few lone drops of seed onto his stomach. 

"On your back," Dutch said. Arthur had just been about to finish himself off, hand hovering over his dick. Dutch took that hand a kissed each knuckle, telling him again, "on your back, Arthur."

Arthur listened, spreading his legs, wanting Dutch between them. But Dutch climbed on top him, spread himself open, and eased down until Arthur felt his tip breech Dutch's hole. Arthur threw his head back.

"Dutch, m' sorry. I'm real close."

"That's fine, Arthur. You can cum inside me."

So Arthur gripped Dutch's thighs and began thrusting up, letting Dutch's body loosen around him until he was balls-deep. Just the thought of what he was doing sent a surge of pleasure down his spine and into his gut. He went still, soaking in the sounds and the breathless whines Dutch let free. He never expected this - Dutch opening himself up to Arthur. It was all too intimate. Even without moving, he was about to cum.

Then Dutch got restless, pinned Arthur's wrists to the ground and rolled his hips hard and fast, Arthur cursing, suddenly and violently reaching the point of no return. He fucked up into Dutch with all his strength then, eliciting a near scream from Dutch, one of his own tearing from his throat as he came. It punched the air out of him, stomach convulsing, cock pulsing, emptying inside his mentor until black spots dotted his vision. The sharp surges of pleasure slowly dwindled, his hips stilling. 

Dutch had a grin on his face. "Been a while since you been with someone, huh?" He began to rise, but Arthur grabbed his hip bones and held him there, letting his dick grow soft inside him, running his hands along Dutch's muscled stomach.

"You came first."

"True. Been a while for me too."

Arthur scoffed. He'd had Molly just weeks ago. For Arthur it had been years. Dutch seemed to sense his thoughts, leaning forward to brush a kiss across Arthur's lips. Arthur grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him into a deeper one, letting his tongue work on its own. Dutch melted against him, fingers curling around Arthur's throat. It made Arthur's cock twitch. Dutch seemed to feel it, raising his eyebrows before pulling back for air. 

"Let's get that hotel room," he purred, "and I'll remind you how to fuck."


	9. Chapter 9

For once in his life, Dutch ignored the lead they'd come to Valentine for to keep Arthur trapped underneath him, not that Arthur was complaining. The only thing he worried about, currently, was the cock pressing against his asshole. 

As much as he had wanted someone to fuck the life out of him, he didn't trust a stranger to not hurt him beyond repair. He fingered himself and that was the extent of his experience.

They had nearly run up to the room once they'd paid for it, had locked the door, had rutted and rubbed and licked and kissed until they were both painfully hard all over again. But Arthur wasn't sure he could take what Dutch had to offer. The man had a way with women and now he understood why. 

Dutch bent Arthur over the bed, pushing his face into the mattress and tugging his ass into the air. There was something horribly wrong with Arthur - it felt too good to submit to Dutch. He feared what a stranger would do to him, but he was willing to let Dutch tear him apart from the inside.

"Gonna let me fill you with my cum?" Dutch growled.

"Ye-"

Dutch slapped him hard on the ass, knocking the answer out of his throat to make way for a moan. Heat rose up Arthur's neck. He had not expected to enjoy that, but his skin was tingling and his cock was leaking and all he wanted was for Dutch to hit him again.

"You ever let someone take you before?"

Arthur shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"Well, don't I feel special."

The weight on the edge of the mattress lifted and Arthur relaxed, tensing when Dutch slapped his ass again, his breath catching and the sound echoing across the room. Dutch then rubbed the sore skin, and spread him open. Arthur canted forward at the feel of Dutch's tongue. Dutch held him in place, humming as he lapped. This too felt too intimate to be happening - to be Dutch doing it to him, but it was, and Arthur whispered his name like a prayer just to remind himself.

Dutch's tongue breached him, and Arthur's whispers broke into a shout he smothered in the mattress. Dutch hummed again, this one sounding more like a pleased laugh. Arthur shouldn't be this easy, shouldn't be making sounds like a well-paid whore, but if he didn't moan out he feared he'd explode.

Dutch's finger joined his tongue, sinking into Arthur all the way to the knuckle. Arthur gasped, blinking away a surge of dizziness. It never felt that good when he was doing it to himself.

"God, Dutch. I've wanted this for so long." 

That earned him another finger, plunging in hard. Arthur pushed back against it despite the ache. 

"Have you, now?" Dutch said, low and deep, in the voice he only ever used for flirting - flirting with women more specifically. 

"You used to think about comin' into my tent, but I guarantee I used to think about comin' into yours more. Every--" Dutch brushed his prostate. "Ah! Fuck. Every night."

It earned him a third finger, sliding in slower, stretching him until he was breathless.

"I want your cock," Arthur whined, surprising himself, and, it seemed, surprising Dutch, who pulled away.

Arthur hissed at the tug of the retreating fingers, then whined at their loss. Dutch's hand crawled up his side, pushing. 

"On your back. I want to see that pretty face of yours."

Arthur rolled, too alight with fire to feel shame for his hard, weeping cock, which Dutch eyed as he sidled up between Arthur's legs. Arthur ran his fingers through Dutch's chest hair, trailing down to grasp his ass and pull him closer.

"If it hurts, tell me," Dutch whispered. 

"I will," Arthur said, while thinking, 'I won't.'

It did hurt. Dutch had lathered his cock with his own spit, had worked Arthur open, but it only did so much. Instantly, as Dutch breached him, tears sprang to his eyes.

"Shit," Arthur gasped, squeezing his eyes shut so Dutch wouldn't see his pain. 

"Breathe, Arthur."

He took a racking gulp of air, feeling it rush out of him even faster, Dutch continuing his slow slid inside. "If you need me to stop, tell me."

Arthur shook his head, canting it to the side to keep Dutch from spotting the lines that were surely deepening along his forehead. Whatever pleasure he'd been feeling with fingers had vanished. It felt like he was ripping in half.

Dutch worked himself deeper, black spots roiling in Arthur's vision. He was going to pass out. Or sob. Both would make Dutch stop.

"Arthur, you gotta talk to me."

Arthur grabbed the bedspread, unconsciously pushing Dutch away with his thighs. "Okay! Shit okay, stop!"

The breath that escaped him was wet. Dutch froze, started to pull out, but Arthur stopped him. 

"S'okay, I-I just need a second, I think."

Dutch, as gently as possible, leaned down enough to brush a kiss to Arthur's forehead, ebbing some of Arthur's fear. He had wanted Dutch to hurt him, but, it turned out, only to an extent. 

"You're doing so good for me, Arthur," Dutch whispered into his hair. 

The praise made Arthur clench. Dutch ran his tongue down Arthur's neck and along his collarbone, wrapping a hand around his cock and tugging him slow - slow enough to make Arthur want more.

"Okay," he gasped. "Fuck me, Dutch."

Dutch moaned into the crook of Arthur's neck, snapping his hips forward. The headboard slapped the wall. Arthur bit down on his knuckle, just barely keeping his answering scream from escaping. Dutch pulled back, slowly, Arthur's muscles fighting to keep him in place. Tears slipped across his temples and into his hair.

Dutch pulled out to the tip and slammed back in, punching the air from Arthur's lungs. When Arthur caught his breath, the first sound that came was a sob. 

Dutch lifted his head, voice breaking. "Shit. Are you okay?"

A fresh wave of tears broke onto Arthur's face. He opened his mouth but couldn't speak. Instead, he wept.

Dutch yanked himself out so fast that Arthur's head spun. "Arthur? Shit, shit. Did I hurt you?"

He couldn't seem to answer, no matter how much he wanted to calm the panic flaring in Dutch's eyes. 

Dutch clasped Arthur's face, brushing tears away with his thumbs. "Shh. It's okay. Just breathe for me."

Arthur tried, but his exhale was ragged and wet and too shallow to ease the spin of the room.

"What's wrong?"

He wasn't sure. Not entirely. But he had just been wide open with Dutch inside him, had felt more vulnerable than he ever had and probably ever would, and it had hurt.

Dutch lay beside him, tugging Arthur's face into his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Arthur sobbed. Dutch whispered to him, kissed the top of his hair, rubbed his back. 

Their life-the whole gang-was going to shit and there was nothing Arthur could do except hope to God Dutch could fix it. With Dutch on top of him, controlling him, stretching him, slowly tearing him apart, it only reminded him of everything that he wanted to forget--that their lives were in fast decline and, in the end, Arthur suspected Dutch would hurt them all.

He cried harder, unable to rein it in, unable to answer Dutch's increasingly frantic questions. Arthur hadn't cried in front of anyone since...well, it had been a long, long time ago. But he felt torn open and scooped hollow. He felt like he had finally gotten Dutch only after he began wondering if the man had lost his mind.

He would get his heart stomped on, just like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What have I done?? :'(


	10. Chapter 10

Dutch was trying. 

He held Arthur and let him cry himself into exhaustion, offering murmurs of reassurance at silent intervals when Arthur was too breathless to make a noise. 

There was blood on Dutch's cock, now soft. Dutch tried to hide it once he realized it was there, but Arthur spotted it immediately, could feel the searing tears inside him. He had been too tense, or couldn't handle what he wanted that quickly. Or maybe he just wasn't meant to be with Dutch.

Arthur let his eyes shut, let a cold, black sleep drag him under. 

*

Dutch was gone when he woke. The empty side of the bed made his pulse ratchet. His own clothes were folded at the foot of the bed, resting atop the thin blanket that covered him from the stomach down. 

His eyes ached. His heart ached worse. 

He swallowed, throat dry, and lifted the blanket for a look. He wasn't sure what he was excepting. Some kind of sign that he'd been mutilated, he guessed, but all that was on the inside. There were just love bites and fingertip-sized bruises littering his otherwise unharmed skin on the outside, signs of a passionate encounter. So why did they leave him feeling cold?

Where was Dutch?

He dressed slow, sudden movements eliciting an ache deep inside that was almost too painful to bear. He searched through his satchel and swallowed down half a bottle of whiskey. He eased the rest down his throat once he realized he was going to have to ride a horse for hours to get back to camp. 

Had Dutch went on without him? Was he disgusted at Arthur for being incapable of doing the one thing they'd set out to do? Arthur was not a quitter. He got the job done, no matter the cost. Failing to push through the pain made him look unreliable. Weak. What would that mean now? Would he be the first to fall by the wayside when Dutch's plans inevitably nixed the dead weight. 

His head spun from the whiskey. His chest hurt from his own shortcomings. What good was he? What good was he ever, except another gun to follow idly behind Dutch?

Was that all this was? 

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling. So he finished dressing and headed down and out into the late evening rush of Valentine. 

The Count was gone. 

So that was how it was. Arthur failed and Dutch moved on. Someone else would get the job done. 

*

The first thing he noticed upon arriving at Shady Belle was that the Count was not there either. The second thing he noticed was Molly.

She was sitting on the front porch alone and as gorgeous as ever, piercing eyes alight in the last rays of sunset. There was no question as to who she was waiting for. 

"You okay there Arthur?" 

He hadn't noticed Hosea lounging by the dried up fountain until he was within reach, his worries lying with Molly's intentions. Did she want Dutch back? Would Dutch accept her?

Hosea snapped his book shut. "You're limping."

"Oh." Arthur dropped his chin, hoping the shadow of his hat would hide his shame. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Where's Dutch?"

"Thought he would be here. We got separated."

"Well he has a guest who's getting impatient."

Arthur grunted his understanding. Molly was stepping off the porch and charging in his direction. 

"Arthur!" She called. 

"Miss O'Shea."

"Is Dutch not with ya?"

"'Fraid not."

"Well, do ya know when he'll be back?"

Arthur was overly aware that Hosea's eyes had not left him once. He shifted on his feet, irritating the ache in his insides. The ride had not been kind. 

"I don't have a clue," Arthur admitted. "You know Dutch. He probably got sidetracked connin' some poor folk or somethin'."

"Without you?" Hosea's frown deepened.

Arthur, fearing his voice would give him away, just shrugged. Molly sighed and retreated back to the porch, cursing Dutch. Longing for him. If only she knew how similar their situations were. 

"You boys didn't get into any trouble, did you?" Hosea asked.

"Nothin' we couldn't handle."

Oh what a lie that was. 

"And Dutch just left you without sayin' where he was goin' or what he was doin'?" 

Arthur hesitated. The more lies he told, the more obvious he'd be. So he stuck with the truth where he could. "He didn't tell me anything. He was just gone."

Saying it shunted what feelings he'd managed to bury back to the forefront. His stomach soured. His knees weakened.

Hosea scratched his chin, eyes flicking between Arthur's. "Well, go get some rest. Looks like you need it."

Arthur nodded and headed for the house, dreading the stairs he had to climb.

*

Despite his promises and all the trouble going against them caused, he drank. It was an hour past sunset and the air lost some of its weight. Bugs whirled around the campfire.

"Haven't seen you in a few days, Arthur," John was saying to his own beer bottle. "How'd the party go?"

Charles and Javier dropped their conversation and watched Arthur expectantly, firelight dancing in their eyes. 

"And how 'bout that lead you and Dutch went after this mornin'?" Lenny smacked Arthur's shoulder and threw his legs over the log to sit beside him. "The source wasn't the most reliable, but Dutch seemed all for it. Turn up anything?"

Arthur took a slow swig of beer, buying time.Sweat prickled the back of Arthur's neck. If he opened his mouth, what would come out? He was alarmed to find he didn't know. He might say anything, just to get some of the crushing weight off his chest.

"You both were gone long enough," Javier said, as if Dutch leaving camp for once had been a crime.

What could he say?

"Is Dutch even back?" John glanced toward the hitching posts, the Count generally obvious with any sort of moonlight. 

Arthur had to pull his beer back or else drown. He coughed some of it into his hand.

Charles's soft curiosity grew into something darker. "Did something happen?" 

Well, yes, actually. I fucked Dutch and then cried when he tried to do the same to me.

That would go over well. 

But the words were floating to the tip of his tongue anyway.

"Cornwall's men?" John asked. "I told him it was stupid to go back to Valentine."

"Actually--"

Hoofbeats charged up the drive, startling Arthur into silence. A knot lodged in his throat, tripling in size when he saw Dutch and the Count pass through the front gate. Arthur was instantly on his feet, backpedaling toward the house while the others were busy watching Dutch.

He ran into something hard and spun on Hosea. The man looked him up and down, glancing toward the hitching posts before returning his gaze to Arthur. He opened his mouth and Arthur shot around him, kicking through the dew-dampened grass and wrenching open the side door of the house.

Just before slipping inside, he risked a glance toward the hitching posts, finding Dutch's eyes glued to him. They both went still.

Then Molly was walking past the fountain and Dutch's attention fell away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading all the encouraging comments. You guys keep me going :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, might have made it sadder :(
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for self-harm

He heard his name. 

It was on the wind. The voices he'd run from chased him into his room. He locked his door. The house grew quiet, but the outside seeped through broken windows. He sat on his bed, the quick creak of springs covering Dutch's voice. When Dutch wanted to be heard, he was heard. When he wanted to be secretive, wanted to sneak into rooms or rent them, one would ever find out what he'd done behind those closed doors -- behind Arthur's door, freeing Arthur from his pants -- behind his own door, freeing Molly from her dress. 

Dutch's voice rose up the stairwell, his footsteps joined by another's -- the click of heels grating wood.

They were coming upstairs, speaking softer, syllables blurring, maybe for the sake of Jack sleeping in the other room. Or maybe so Dutch could keep this a secret too. A secret from Arthur. 

Their door clicked shut.

He had taken her back.

Of course he had.

Arthur was nothing in comparison.

Just a warm body with an unhealthy amount of loyalty.

Had Arthur even wanted what he'd asked for?

Or did he feel he owed Dutch?

Panic. It was flooding back. It was striking him like a punch, clasping his heart like a vice. He sucked in a breath. Held it. His nails dug at his palms. He realized he was bleeding only when his hands got sticky. It felt good once the shock passed, felt good to be in control. He clawed the wounds deeper. Thought of Dutch. Thought of all the times he thought he'd felt love. He pulled his knife off his table and began slicing the crescent cuts wider, digging deeper, tearing through skin as if searching for something. He hit muscle and released his breath, the sound wet and ragged. 

But the panic was still there. Cresting. Getting ready to crash. So he kept slicing. 

There was a knock and he froze, knife scraping bone. Blood trailed down his elbow and soaked his pants. What crashed over him was not panic but reality. He had torn apart his left hand with a dirty knife. He had cut across ligaments and ripped through muscle. His ring finger was numb.

"Arthur?"

Hosea. 

Arthur couldn't find his voice. 

The knob turned but the locked bolt held the door in place. He needed help. He needed a bandage. Stitches. A way to stop the bleeding. 

But he also couldn't let anyone see him like this. Couldn't show weakness. Couldn't explain what was wrong even if someone asked. 

He kept quiet. Hosea knocked again. 

Go away, he thought, while also thinking, help. I'm too old for your worries, he thought, while thinking, I feel so small.

Eventually, the knocks stopped. Hosea retreated down the creaky steps. Arthur dropped the knife and rolled onto his side, twisting his hand in the bedsheet. It took about three seconds for blood to soak through. It ached, brought pained tears to his eyes, but it was his doing. He was in control. No one else. He stopped when he wanted. But it had been too late. He'd done irreparable damage. He couldn't clench a fist, couldn't even move his fingers. 

He shut his eyes and took a breath, gathering himself. If he could just get downstairs, there were bandages in Reverend's wagon. 

But his eyes refused to open. 

He felt cold. 

*

"Then what did I do?"

Outside the stuffy room, Hosea called for Arthur. 

"What did I do, Dutch?" Molly repeated. "Except love you with everything in me?"

There was a pit in his stomach - a cold one. Arthur had run from him.

"We both know things aren't right between us," Dutch heard himself say, eyes on the wall instead of Molly. Hosea knocked on Arthur's door. "They haven't been for some time. It's nothing you did."

Molly, as much as she tried holding them back, broke into tears. "You're a liar, Dutch Van der Linde. You promised me. Promised me that you'd always care for me."

"I still do."

She looked up, hopeful, and he quickly elaborated. "You were part of this gang before we were an item, and still are now that it's over." The words ripped a weight off his shoulders as they left. It was over. "I care about you because you're still part of my family, no matter what."

Molly clenched her fists. Hosea knocked again. Why wasn't Arthur answering?

"This is the talk you give all your women when they get too old, isn't it?"

"You should have more confidence in yourself."

"If you hadn't hit on other girls right under my nose maybe I would!"

Fair. 

He knew what he was doing when he'd approached Mary-Beth over and over again. He hadn't saw the issue. He did what he felt like. But his feelings had been wrong. Instead of breaking it off with Molly, he tried getting her to break it off with him. He didn't want the extra stress, didn't want the consequences of telling her to move out of his tent. He had hoped she would just get the hint, much the same as he had hoped Arthur would get the hint that the mayor's party was a date. 

Arthur.

Goddamnit.

Dutch had gone too fast, pushed too far. Arthur had bled. Had wept. He had cried in front of Dutch before, but never like that, and it had never been Dutch's doing. He left the hotel feeling as though he had broken something irreparable, had hoped to God that Arthur could forgive him. He rode down the main avenue and stopped at the smaller bar, thinking he should just leave Arthur be. Instead, he ordered them breakfast. When he returned, peace offering in hand, Arthur was gone.

His heart had splintered.

He deserved it.

"We're not good for each other," Dutch said to Molly, thinking the same of him and Arthur, quickly deciding that maybe he just wasn't good for anyone. "I'm...trying to be better. I think. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes, tired to the bone. Heartsick. Shamed.

"You stopped trying," Molly said. She had a hold on her emotions again, tears drying on her face, visible only in the flicker of candlelight. Her voice was soft. Matter of fact. It had not been a question, and for once, Dutch didn't deny the accuracy of it.

"I know."

"I'm willing to work through it. I--" She shook her head and took a sharp breath. "I still love you, as foolish as it is."

Dutch clasped his hand over hers. "You know us, Miss O'Shea. We go from lovers to enemies three times in a day. And things are gettin' worse outside of us. I am truly sorry if it was my own stress that drove us apart. But I just can't do it anymore."

Molly stared at the candle for a moment, heartbreak clear in her eyes. Dutch had seen the same look in his own passing the mirror in their empty hotel room. He had never been able to reciprocate Molly's affections. When she said she loved him, he had alway thanked her. He could not even dread the thought of her leaving him.

But with Arthur...

Hosea's footsteps thumped down the stairs. Arthur had never answered his door.

"Is there someone else?" Molly asked, the look he saw before replaced by acceptance.

"I thought there might be." He was surprised by his own honesty. 

Molly pulled her hand away. Stood and straightened her dress. Looked around the room as if lost. "Okay. That's...I'll...I'm not sure if I'll stick around."

Dutch nodded. "Let me pay for a boat to take you back home."

Her face fell briefly. It had been a last resort, Dutch realized. She'd hoped the threat of never seeing each other again would shake sense into him. And Dutch just told her to get out of the country.

"Or wait it out and see how you feel in a few days," Dutch continued. "You're welcome to stay, but I'll understand if you'd prefer not to." He felt an unexpected smile slip onto his face. "If you think the girls will give you a hard time, just tell them I begged you to stay with me and you refused."

Molly actually smirked, though she cleared her expression as soon as it popped up. "Fine. I'll sleep downstairs tonight."

Dutch walked her to the stairwell, frowning toward Arthur's door. She unwound her arm from his and descended. It had gone smoother than he expected. As easily as he could talk his way into people's pockets, he didn't understand why he was always so hesitant to talk through his emotions. 

He crept toward Arthur's door, aware that Jack and Abigail were sleeping in the room behind him. He knocked softly. After a moment, he put his ear to the door. Arthur hadn't stirred. He knocked again with a little more force. Still nothing. The door was locked.

"Arthur. It's me." Dutch rested his forehead against the door. "I'm sorry."

When there was no reply, he went back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry!!! It just kinda happened. I didn't mean for it to turn out this way.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you lovely people for your patience and overwhelming support <3 All the comments have meant the world to me

Dutch collapsed on his bed, exhausted but expecting another sleepless night. 

He had half a mind to retrieve Molly just for the night and relieve some stress--he slept better with someone else anyway. But, for once, the idea seemed traitorous. It was obvious Arthur wanted nothing to do with him, but God forbid he overheard him and Molly. 

Was he actually considering monogamy, even for a relationship that had broken before it started? Dutch felt little in terms of small fears. Death was one thing, but losing a lover had never felt so utterly terrifying. Even with Annabelle, he hadn't had the chance to worry about losing her. She was just gone. In the blink of an eye. 

Losing her had been more of a shock. 

Losing Arthur would feel like losing his soul. 

A knock echoed down the hall, startling him from his thoughts. He grabbed the grip of his gun out of habit, still tucked into his belt and latched around his waist. 

"Arthur," Hosea barked. "I'm giving you one more minute and if you don't answer the door so help me, I will kick the thing down."

Dutch was on his feet and in the hall before he realized what he was doing. He glanced into the hole marring the wall of Jack, John's, and Abigail's bedroom before snagging Hosea's elbow, dragging him from the door.

"What the hell are you doin', Hosea?"

"I'd like to ask the same of you, Dutch." He wrenched his arm away and beat on the door, harder. "Since when do you show a lick of concern when it comes to our boys?"

Dutch stepped back, tailbone crashing against the railing, the whole thing creaking against his weight. It would have felt better to fall than to meet the fire lurking behind Hosea's eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Arthur, your minute is about up."

"What are you talkin' about, Hosea? You think--?"

"Don't matter what I think," Hosea snapped. It had been years since Dutch had seen him so furious. "You'll still leave Arthur to break himself out of an O'Driscoll camp, you'll still work him like a dog just to question his loyalty, and you'll still leave him behind a locked door when somethin' is quite obviously wrong!"

By now, John was hovering in his doorway, mouth poised for a question but silenced by the outburst, same as Dutch. They glanced at each other as Hosea beat the door with his fist, the fury in his eyes flitting to fear.

"He don't wanna be bothered," Dutch said. He knew it all too well, and if he wasn't afraid of Hosea knocking his head off, he'd explain why. "And you still believe I would have left him with the O'Driscolls? I thought he was coming home!"

Hosea snapped his head toward Dutch. "You thought? You don't think at all. Why in the hell would Arthur leave the meeting with Colm without you? He always tells us where he's going, what he's doing. He does it because he knows we'll--I'll worry. You think he wouldn't answer his goddamn door if I'm out here beatin' on it? You've lost your damn mind."

Dutch watched the door rattle on its hinges as Hosea beat it again, eyes on Dutch, just daring him to argue. The problem was, he was right. Didn't matter what happened. If Hosea was worrying, Arthur would drop everything just to assure him. So why wasn't he doing that now?

Below, the girls had gathered on the landing, Molly now included. 

"Maybe he's not in there," John said, doubt edging his voice.

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe the stress of the last several weeks had simply pushed everyone to the edge, made them expect the worst. Or maybe Dutch had hurt Arthur more than he imagined. What if he hadn't stopped bleeding? Was that possible?

"Outta the way," Dutch said.

Hosea looked like he was about to argue, so Dutch shoved him, sent him stumbling toward John who caught him as Dutch reared back and kicked the door. The wood croaked, but the hinges held. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He had heard Arthur moving around in there when he first came up the stairs. There was nothing but dead silence now. 

"Arthur!"

He's okay, Dutch told himself. He's fine. He's tough. Nothing hurts him. Nothing scares him. 

Except Dutch himself, he realized.

It hadn't been anger driving Arthur's horse back to Shady Belle. Anger hadn't forced him to retreat into the house at Dutch's arrival. It had been fear.

Dutch kicked again, felt something pop under his heel. 

What if Arthur had fled again? Jumped out his window, just to get away from Dutch? What if Dutch would never see him again?

He gathered his strength, what little remained after the long day, and plowed his foot against the door a third time. It screeched as it broke apart, wooden splinters showering the floor, dust getting in his eyes. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes caught on the dark figured curled on the bed.

"Arthur?" His voice came as a whisper.

Hosea pushed past him, surging toward the bed but stopping halfway there, eyes on the floor. John crept up on the threshold, stopping behind Dutch. Dutch couldn't bring himself to move. Arthur didn't want to see him, that much was clear. 

Hosea had halted by a dark stain soaking into the floorboards, by Arthur's discarded knife reflecting moonlight across the ceiling. It's tip was wet. Red. Bloody. 

"Arthur!" Hosea didn't nudge Arthur as Dutch had expected, but grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him onto his back. Arthur didn't fight it. His face was lost in shadow. "Christ--"

No.

No, no, no.

Dutch could smell the blood now.

"What?" John blurted, forgetting courtesy and shouldering Dutch out of his way.

Arthur wasn't moving.

"He's--" Hosea lifted Arthur's arm. The bloodied bedsheet clung to Arthur's hand. "Goddamnit! John, someone, get-get bandages. Anything we got."

John collided with Dutch on his way out, Dutch having finally got his feet moving, his legs working, his chest braced to keep his panic from spilling out in a scream. John wound around him, reiterating Hosea's orders. Footsteps followed him to the first floor and out onto the dark lawn, helping hands waiting to be loaded with supplies. From the open windows, he heard John screaming for Miss Grimshaw. The whole camp would be filing up the stairs in a matter of minutes. 

Dutch had to see.

Had to know what he'd done.

Had to bury his reaction quickly.

He stopped by the bed, stunned.

Arthur's eyes were closed. His skin was as white as the sheet, his arm as bloody as the portion trapped around his fist. Hosea peeled it back, skin tearing, small wounds splitting wide, a gasp splitting Arthur's palm wide open, flayed to bone.

Hosea cursed, winding the sheet tighter, glancing toward the doorway where someone stood watching.

It didn't matter anymore if someone saw, because Dutch couldn't hold it in.

He broke.

His knees hit the floor, his hands found Arthur's face, startlingly cold. Arthur had done this to himself. Dutch had made him.

He felt for a pulse, his own throbbing too franticly in his fingertip to feel anything besides. Hosea watched, silent, until John was saying, "excuse me, Miss O'Shea," and shunting himself between them, popping boxes of personal medkits open and spilling them by Arthur's side. 

Hosea immediately went to work, tearing the bedsheet away once again, John grimacing, Tilly coming in with a pitcher of near-boiling water, Karen lighting a lantern and holding it steady over their heads despite the stench of whiskey rolling off her clothes.

Dutch's sight blurred. He had hurt Arthur. Damaged him beyond repair. Had taken his silence at face value and let him bleed to death thirty feet away.

His fault.

Arthur was--

"Dutch!"

Dutch's eyes snapped toward Hosea, sight clearing as tears trailed onto his cheeks. It took Hosea off guard, the older man's bloody fingers pausing with a needle half-buried in Arthur's skin.

"Did you hear me?" Hosea said. "He's got a pulse. Try getting him to wake up."

Miss Grimshaw had taken John's place, pouring tonics over shredded skin and exposed bone. Their work was making the bleeding worse.

Dutch pushed Arthur's hair back from his forehead, other hand on Arthur's cheek his thumb grazing the jut of bone there. His words came choked and wet. "Arthur. Listen to me, son. I need you to open your eyes. I know it's hard, but you can do it. I know you can. You're strong, Arthur, but I'm...I'm not. Not without you. So open your eyes. Please. I'm begging you." 

Suddenly there were hands next to his, dripping with water, leaving cold droplets to roll across Arthur's forehead and soak into his hair. Dutch swallowed against a knot lodged in his throat, letting Charles continue but refusing to remove his own hands. If he let go...

What if it was the last time he could hold Arthur alive?

His voice cracked. "You never have to listen to me again, all right? Never have to take another order from me as long as I live. Just do this one thing. Open your eyes."

He felt colder.

Dutch dropped his head, burying his face in damp Arthur's hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. For pressuring you. Hurting you. I'll never forgive myself. Never. You can go. You can go make that family you've always wanted. Just wake up!"

Arthur twitched.

Dutch jerked back.

Arthur's eyes cracked open.

*

Arthur followed the familiar voice to consciousness, sinking away from it when pain devoured his hand.

Dutch was in his room. By his bed. Telling him to go.

It was worse than he thought.


	13. Chapter 13

"That's it, son," Dutch said, talking around his heart as it lurched into his throat. "That's it. I knew you could do it."

Arthur shrank back as if Dutch had struck him. Dutch flinched in response, knocking into Charles, the canteen Charles had been holding clattering to the floor. Water soaked into the knees of Dutch's pants. 

"No..." Arthur began. 

"Arthur, I..." The words died before Dutch could free them, feeling Hosea's stare, seeing Arthur's shift from confusion to terror. 

"No." Arthur jerked his hand toward his chest, tugging Hosea's needle along with it, new stitches and old skin ripping wide. Blood dribbled down his arm and to his chest, soft patters against cotton. "Please, Dutch. Don't."

Dutch's mouth went dry. His stomach flipped. Automatically, he grabbed it, fearing for one brief moment he was going to hurl. Then Hosea would know. Everyone would know. He was guilty.

"It's okay, son," Dutch said, squeezing Arthur's shoulder, trying to still his struggle against Hosea and Miss Grimshaw, both of them putting all their weight on Arthur's chest. The more he struggled, the more he bled. "Everything's okay."

"No," Arthur mumbled, twisting his head against the mattress. A sharp sob wrenched from his throat. "No! I'm sorry. I can't do it. I can't do it, Dutch. Please stop."

"Arthur," Hosea finally spoke. "You gotta stay still for us."

"No!"

Dutch backed away, pallid and sick. It was worse than he thought.

"Arthur, listen to me," Hosea began.

"I can't do it again," Arthur wept.

Dutch's hands shook. Arthur sounded so young, far too young for him to have done what he had. He thought it would be okay. He thought Arthur wanted it too. But had it all been forced? Had even the kiss been reciprocated only because Arthur feared Dutch's reaction to rejection?

Dutch gagged with the next swell of nausea, pushing past John to get into the hall where the air was lighter, where Arthur couldn't see him.

"You're not making sense," Hosea snapped, fear turning his tone sharp. "Just be still."

Dutch leaned into the wall, room spinning, breath shallow. Molly eyed him.

From the room, Hosea called after him. "Dutch, get back in here and hold him down!"

Arthur whimpered like a kicked dog.

Shit. He was so far gone. He wouldn't be making those sounds, making a scene, if he realized people were watching. It was too late. He was--

"Dutch!"

Dying.

"Dutch." Molly took his face in her warm hands. His eyes flicked open to her face just inches from his. Searching. "Sit down. I'll take care of it."

"...take care...?" he repeated, breathless. 

Her warmth vanished. Her shadow grew long against the doorframe, disappearing inside. Dutch slid to the floor, ignoring the tugs of drywall on his vest. Mary-Beth turned away, either ashamed for him or understanding.

"Arthur," Molly said, loud but gentle. Motherly. Un-Molly like. "Can you understand me, Arthur."

"Where's Dutch?" Hosea barked.

But Arthur's low rasping voice interrupted an answer, had he intended for one. "Miss O'Shea?"

"Remember that time I fell crossing that creek?" she said, as if it were any other day. Dutch found himself sliding toward the room just to get a look at her, to try to understand what she was up to. "I cracked my head on that damned rock. Had to get stitches."

Arthur's tear-damp eyes focused on her above him, seemingly enthralled, but still stiff as a board, refusing to let Hosea near his hand. "I remember."

"Well, so do I, unfortunately. Hurt so bad I couldn't sit still for the life of me, not until you told me I'd be an ugly troll if I didn't let Miss Grimshaw fix me up." She laughed at that, though at the time had scoffed. It had worked though. She sat still after that. Miss Grimshaw sutured her and left barely a hint of a scar just below her hairline. She had thanked Arthur afterward.

"So you gotta do the same and sit still or else your hand is gonna be uglier than my face could ever be, no matter how many times I fall into a creek."

Arthur's focus finally landed on his hand, on Hosea's white-knuckled grip on his wrist. He blinked as though he didn't trust what he was seeing.

He looked back to Molly. "I'm sorry."

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for, just--"

"Dutch..." Arthur began. 

No. 

Oh fuck no.

"Don't worry about anything right now," Molly said, "besides getting your hand--"

"Dutch took me to bed."

Hosea, Charles, and Miss Grimshaw whipped around, finding Dutch on the floor and grasping the door frame. His heart stopped.

Karen laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (－‸ლ)


	14. Chapter 14

It was Molly who broke the silence, eyes still on Arthur. "Oh."

Dutch couldn't move. While most of the stares focused on him bled confusion, Hosea's was intent. Focused. Analyzing.

Don't look guilty, Dutch told himself, but he could feel his eyes were wide and his nails were digging into the door frame like it was the only anchor holding him to the world.

Charles hadn't even reacted. And for a moment, Dutch thought John hadn't either, but now he saw his other son slowly turning to face him, as though fearing sudden movements. As though fearing Dutch.

"Sorry," Arthur said again, weaker, the sound managing to thrust a knife in Dutch's chest, made all the worse with John's conflicted expression eating into him.

"That's...okay," Molly croaked. "Just let Hosea fix you up."

Hearing his name, Hosea tore his eyes off Dutch and began wiping the newly surfaced blood from Arthur's wounds. This time, Arthur let him. Dutch watched as his muscles relaxed, watched his head drop into the pillow, watched as Arthur's eyes met his own.

"Dutch?" Arthur whispered, but of course he heard it. Somehow it was still the loudest thing in the entire house. 

Finally Dutch's legs moved, pushing him to his feet. He hugged the wall for as long as he could, forced to trust his balance when the wall dropped away and Arthur's room opened up around him. 

John's eyes narrowed, and for once Dutch couldn't bring himself to be angry. 

Arthur tried to sit up, Miss Grimshaw snapping to attention and pressing him gently back to the bed while he muttered, "Don't be mad, Dutch. Please. Don't--"

"Dutch," Hosea barked, and Dutch jumped like a gun had gone off in the room. "Get out."

His throat was dry, aching as he opened his mouth to argue. Arthur's was struggling again. His good hand was reaching past Molly and toward Dutch.

"Out, I said," screamed Hosea, passing the needle to Miss Grimshaw. He climbed to his feet and charged Dutch, hands outstretched, ready to shove him out. "I don't even want to look at you right now."

"He's not thinking straight," Dutch insisted. It wasn't a lie, but Hosea saw through the implications. Arthur wasn't thinking straight, but that was when he was the most honest. Drunk or hurt. That was when he spoke from the heart.

Hosea backed him into the hall, voice a growl. "You're scaring him. Get. Out."

"Dutch, I'm sorry!" Arthur screamed. "I'll do better! Please don't leave me!"

Miss Grimshaw shushed him and then ordered Charles to hold him down.

"He...he wants to see me," Dutch said. 

"He's not thinking straight, remember?" Hosea gave him a hard shove toward his room. "We are gonna have words, you and me. But first I have to save our son from, what I expect, was something of your doin'."

"Hosea I didn't--"

"John!" Hosea turned and slipped back into the room. "Pick that door up and put it in place. The man needs some privacy."

John did, shooting Dutch a wary glance before leaning the door on its frame and shutting him out, away from Arthur.

Arthur screamed like he'd been shot, Dutch's blood freezing in his veins. Tilly and Mary-Beth had the good sense to slip down the stairs while Dutch gaped at the door, fighting his instincts to kick the thing down again. It would be easy this time, but Hosea's calming voice on the other side kept his feet glued to the floor.

*

Dutch...

Dutch left him.

He was gone.

Arthur blinked what felt like tears, but the more he tried to clear his vision the more blurred it got. Hot wet trails raked down his cheeks. His throat was blistered from screams he couldn't control, blurs of faces passing between him and the door, words losing their meaning beneath his wailing. 

He'd made a mistake. Said something wrong for Dutch to leave. Did everything wrong. Now there were unfamiliar hands around his wrists, on his legs, on his shoulders, pinning him to the bed. He thought he'd felt terror under Dutch's grip, but this was something else entirely. Fighting only made the hands bite harder into his skin, bruising. Dutch had stopped as soon as Arthur wanted him to. These people were merciless, and, just like with the O'Driscolls, he was too weak to fight back. 

"Dutch!"

"Arthur, please. Quiet."

*

"Dutch!" 

It ended with a sob, one that Dutch heard all the way in his room. He was cold from the inside out. Hollow. It was his fault. He'd left Arthur alone and hurting in the hotel room, and then did it again once at Shady Belle.

It had all been a mistake.

He should have never acted on such backward feelings. Now Arthur was dying, and, having felt what could have been just to lose it, Dutch felt like he was dying along with him.

Now everyone knew. Hosea was going to kill him. John was going to leave again. The girls were never going to trust him. The men weren't going to follow him. 

He had hurt one of their own for his own selfish gain.

*

There was soft skin brushing across his wet cheek, startling him into silence with Dutch's name on his tongue. 

"He's right outside," a woman said. Once again the accent pulled him an inch closer to reality. Of course. Molly. How had he forgotten her presence? 

Another figure loomed closer, tilting a near-empty bottle of whiskey toward his mouth. He recognized it from his own satchel. He recognized the water-stained ceiling of his room. He recognized John's rough voice telling him to take a drink.

Christ. He was at Shady Belle. The figures surrounding him were family. Harmless. Loving. Rough only because his struggles were making his injuries worse.

Injuries?

He flexed his hand, earning the ire of Hosea. He remembered the knife. What he'd done.

What he'd said.

'Dutch took me to bed.'

"That's it," Miss Grimshaw said at Arthur's sudden stillness.

He lifted his head just enough to see her and Hosea manipulating the flayed skin of his hand together, the sight making his head swim. John pushed the mouth of the whiskey bottle to his lips and Arthur took a choking swig.

Dutch was never going to forgive him.

*

When the loose door scraped the wall in the other room several hours later, Dutch sat up. The moon was high and the air was unusually chilled. Like a dog, he waited for someone to come get him.

Hosea didn't knock.

He stepped into the room with a glare, and Dutch allowed himself a sigh of relief. If Hosea's most prominent emotion was fury, then Arthur was still alive.

Hosea punched him so suddenly that Dutch didn't have time to react. His head snapped back. His vision bloomed white. He shot off the bed before he could see, before he could think. Hosea crashed into the wall, Dutch on top of him.

"You goddamn bastard!" Hosea roared.

Dutch's ears were ringing, his sight finally clearing. He had Hosea pinned against the wall, his arm holding the older man in place at his throat. He tasted blood. "Don't you--"

"You've sunk low before. You've killed without cause and hurt without remorse, but this--this is unforgivable."

"I haven't done a damn thing!"

Hosea shoved him off, Dutch having eased his grip once he realized what he was doing. He never imagined getting into a physical altercation with Hosea. They were men of words. Partners. For the longest time, it had been them two against the world. But Dutch's face was aching and Hosea's heart was bruised. Neither were thinking up to their normal capacity. 

"You betrayed him. Betrayed me. All of us!"

"Hosea, I assure you when Arthur's in his right mind--"

Hosea hit him again--backhanded him this time, causing less pain but more humiliation. Still, it was forceful enough to send Dutch back a few steps, blood trickling down his nose and into the collar of his shirt.

"We raised him!"

"He's a goddamn adult!" Dutch realized too late that he had inadvertently admitted something.

Hosea's face blotched with red. "I should have known you were up to something, but God help you, even in my wildest dreams I didn't imagine you'd be trying to do what you did."

Dutch dropped his voice to a growl, daring him as he asked, "and what did I do exactly?"

"Whatever it was, he begged you not to do it again."

Dutch faltered, feeling startlingly weightless for a moment, like he was about to drift away and there was nothing he could do to stop it. "It...it isn't what it sounds like. I would never...force him."

Hosea's upper lip curled. "Really? Because I'm not sure anymore. You're not the man I thought you were. I don't want you near him until he's lucid and I've talked to him."

"And then what? You can't keep him from me."

"If you value your life, I suggest you not try me." Hosea tensed as if intending to throw another punch, but instead he shouldered past Dutch and stopped at the doors he hadn't bothered to close. "If I hear you did what I think you did, this is over."

Dutch felt his adrenaline sink and a black cloud of dread well into the pit of his stomach. He barely managed to keep his tone sharp. Almost threatening. "What's over?"

"This. Us. I'm taking Arthur and leaving."

Dutch twisted his head, just like the dog he'd been pretending to be a few minutes earlier, only now there was something feral surfacing. Something ugly and overpowering. Heat surged up his neck and face. "This isn't over until I say it is."

"You don't control me. You don't control any of us. You only like to imagine you do." With that, Hosea stepped into the hall and shut the doors behind him, quietly, as if he hadn't just let loose a storm in Dutch's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your alls comments have given me so much joy and inspiration. I appreciate every one of them, and I'm sorry if I haven't replied. Just know that you've made my day!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! You all are so lovely and supportive and it's made me want to get this fic written so bad but... I've been playing an unhealthy amount of red dead online instead of being productive. 😓

It was pain that prodded Arthur awake in the early hours of pre-dawn. His mind felt dulled. Lost. Slipping further into a black hole an inch at a time until he was struggling against the pain, unaware that his movement was making it worse. 

There were chilled hands on him again, but the person was alone this time, voice calming instead of frantic. Hosea. But where was Dutch? Had he left? Had he gotten on a boat without them? There was nothing but absolute silence on the other side of his door. Not even the owls or cicadas called. 

"Dutch?"

He hadn't even comprehended it was him yelling until Hosea was on his knees by the bed, telling him to quiet down. But why? Did Hosea not want Dutch to come back to them? Were there O'Driscolls in the house?

He reached under his sweat-dampened pillow for his gun, finding it gone, all the while Hosea was trying to hold him still. 

"Dutch!"

"Arthur, quiet!" Hosea snapped. 

The ferocity startled him into silence. He was being too pliant, and while a part of his brain told him that was how men got killed, another part trusted Hosea enough to keep from arguing. 

"Chrissakes, you're bleeding again."

Arthur followed Hosea's eyes to his own hand buried beneath a blotched layer of gauze. The blotch was growing larger. Hosea pulled the hand toward him, peeling back the bandages and grimacing at whatever he saw. Arthur grunted against the searing pain in the middle of his palm, but he could hardly feel Hosea's fingers gripping his.

"Did you drug me?" 

Hosea glanced up, frowning. "All we have are tonics."

"Oh."

"Why?"

He tried moving his trigger finger, heart hammering when it did nothing. His middle finger did nothing. His thumb twitched pathetically. 

Hosea studied Arthur's pinched expression. "What's wrong?"

Arthur gasped in a wet breath. What had he done? His hand was fucking ruined. Useless. And that meant so was he. Dutch was either furious with him for either failing to pleasure him or failing to keep his mouth shut about it. Hosea...all he had was Hosea to keep Dutch from throwing him out on the street.

"Nothin'."

Hosea let it go, seeming to chalk it up to the fever Arthur felt cooking him from the inside out, radiating off him in waves. Arthur let his eyes shut, trying to quell the headache burning behind them, trying to let sleep take him. 

"Did Dutch drug you?"

Arthur's eyes snapped open. The room gave a slight spin before settling back in place. Hosea's eyes were wide as if in the grips of epiphany. 

Dutch. Where was he? What had him and Molly been doing in their room, and why did the possibilities carve gashes into his heart? Unexpectedly, tears brimmed at Arthur's lashes, making Hosea startle back. Having forgot the question, lost in a burning haze, he began to drown in half-formed thoughts that only led to one conclusion. He had screwed up his chances with Dutch, just as he had with everyone else he tried to love.

"Jesus Christ," Hosea hissed under his breath. He sounded furious. It made Arthur's tears overflow, made him hate himself more than ever. Everything he had ever done for the gang was reduced to this moment, to his current state. He would not be remembered as Dutch's most trusted alongside Hosea, but as the fool who dissected his own hand. He could handle a pistol in his good hand, but could he reload it? Could he even ride a horse one handed? 

"Arthur," Hosea said, softer, though Arthur didn't miss the irritation within it. "There's no need to protect him."

Him who?

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop it. I promised I'd always protect you, no matter how old we got."

Stop what?

"Just tell me the truth. What happened between you and Dutch?"

*

The house, the entire camp, was unearthly quiet. If anyone spoke, it didn't get farther than the campfire. Dutch knew Micah, Bill, and Javier would be returning from watch at sunrise. They would have questions, as would the ones who retired to bed before Dutch had arrived last night, before all the madness began. He needed to nip it in the bud before witnesses were spewing gossip, needed to be outside and ready to explain. But he couldn't get out of bed.

That morning had been the morning he had planned on robbing the trolley station with Lenny and Arthur. It was supposed to be the day he got his family money to live on for years to come on an island of untouched paradise. But then he...and then Arthur...

He failed yet again. 

"Dutch?" Arthur cried.

Dutch sat up, staring at at his double doors, heart thrumming against his ribcage like a bird trapped in a glass house and none the wiser. It left him breathless. 

Hosea told him to stay away. Said he would leave. Said a lot of things that hurt to remember.

"Dutch!"

Dutch shot to his feet and stormed into the hall. Arthur was in pain. Everything in his voice told him so. In pain and terrified. Dutch shouldn't have left his side. He--

"Chrissakes, you're bleeding again."

Dutch stopped at Hosea's hiss coming from Arthur's room, adrenaline leaving him unsteady on his feet. He gripped the banister in front of John's room and squeezed the bridge of his bruised nose. God he needed sleep, but it was impossible while he knew Arthur was hurting.

He trudged back toward his room, feet heavy. Then he heard his name on Hosea's tongue and froze, straining to listen, creeping back toward Arthur's room when he heard nothing else.

"What happened between you and Dutch?"

Arthur made a sniffing sound, Dutch's heart dropping. 

"Arthur?" Hosea said after a few silent beats.

"It's hard to think." Arthur slurred as if drunk.

"I know, son, I know. I just...you need to tell me what he did to you so I can help you."

"You mean what Dutch did?"

"Yes."

Dutch should barge in, scream at Hosea for questioning Arthur at a time when he was obviously out of it, but then Arthur made another quiet sound. A huff of a laugh.

"He's been takin' me on dates," Arthur whispered. Dutch couldn't help it. He leaned until he was peering into the room, spotting a big, dopey grin plastered to Arthur's face. It sent a spark of lightning down his chest and into the pit of his stomach. "As bad as I wanted it, I didn't even realize."

"You..?" Hoseas shifted, boots scraping the floorboards. Even from his spot at the door, Dutch heard the old man's knees pop. "What do you mean dates?"

"Sightseein' mostly. Talkin'. The party."

Hosea said nothing. Dutch felt a warm prickle of sweat form under his arms. Arthur looked oddly giddy, albeit half-asleep, but Hosea didn't seem to like what he was hearing, judging by the stiffness in his shoulders. 

"I think somethin's wrong with me, Hosea," Arthur said. "I ain't never felt like this. I want him so bad."

That spark of electricity shot into Dutch's groin. 

*

Hosea blinked as if he'd been slapped, Arthur seeing it between slow blinks, each one threatening to be his last before sleep pulled him under. 

"Has he...?" Hosea hesitated. "Jesus, Arthur, this ain't something I thought I'd have to ask, but did Dutch force himself on you?"

Arthur snorted. His hands were shaking like he hadn't eaten in days. Maybe he hadn't. He couldn't remember. "Hosea, you think I wouldn't slap the soul outta him if he did that?"

Flush had crept to Hosea's cheeks. "The way you were talking..."

"He didn't need to force me. I been wantin' to jump his bones since forever."

"Uh..."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't--"

"Get some sleep, Arthur." Dutch said, startling him and Hosea both. 

*

Hosea spun like Dutch had greeted them with a gun. Then he was on his feet, standing between him and Arthur, blocking their line of sight. "Now's not a good time," Hosea said.

Behind him, Arthur croaked. "Dutch."

It sounded just weak enough for Hosea to glance back, giving Dutch time to slip around him. Arthur's glazed eyes caught his, relaxing. 

"Dutch, I think Hosea knows bout us."

Hosea balked. "Arthur, I'm right here. And I know because you just told me."

"Shit," Arthur said. 

Dutch clasped Arthur's forehead, frowning at the heat of it. Arthur placed his hand over Dutch's. 

"I'm sorry. I dont know what happened. I'll do better. Give me another chance."

Dutch felt Hosea's eyes on the back if his neck. "Arthur. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I disappointed you. You left me in Valentine, I did so bad."

Dutch finally met Hosea's eyes, heart sinking at the thinly veiled disdain in them. "Can I have a minute alone with him?"

Hosea didn't hesitate. "No."

Dutch scowled. Hosea honestly still believed he'd done something unspeakable to their boy? Maybe he had. Dutch turned back to Arthur. "I was coming back. When I did, you were gone."

"You...were still in Valentine?" 

"Of course I was, son."

He cringed at the word of endearment. He used it on most everyone, even young strangers he was trying to appease. But he doubted Hosea found it appropriate.

Dutch settled on his knees, pulled his hand out from Arthur's to run it from his forehead to his cheek. Arthur shut his eyes, seeming to enjoy the coolness of Dutch's skin. "You didn't disappoint me. And you didn't do anything wrong. It was me who erred. I'm so sorry for that. I'd take it all back in a heartbeat."

Arthur struggled to get his eyes open. "Because you're back with Molly?"

"Wh--no. She and I aren't together, and my regret has nothing to do with her and everything to do with you. I..." he glanced over his shoulder, just enough to see that Hosea was still there. This was not a conversation Dutch wanted to have with an audience. "...I hurt you. Badly. I've done some terrible things, Arthur, but this is definitely one thing I'll never forgive myself for."

Arthur's quiet gulp was the only sound for a moment, Dutch positive that he and Hosea were both holding their breaths, though for very different reasons. 

Finally Arthur spoke, "So, you'll let me try again?"

Dutch grinned, from nerves or relief, he couldn't be sure. He forced his focus to stay on Arthur as Hosea cleared his throat. "Anything you want. Hell, I'd even put on a dress and let you--"

"Ahem!" Hosea said, hand digging into Dutch's shoulder, trying to pry him off Arthur. 

"I don't wanna lose you," Arthur confided, eyes fluttering shut. 

"You wont," Dutch said, ceasing his struggle and allowing Hosea to drag him into the hall.

The sun was beginning to rise, light streaming from the windows in John's room and drifting into the hall, turning Hosea's gray hair white at the edges. 

Hosea steered Dutch toward the double doors of his room, grip tightening as he spoke. "What the hell are you thinking, telling him those things? Whatever was going on between you two stops today."

"Hosea--"

"I mean it, Dutch." 

Dutch pulled from his grip, plopping down on the edge of the bed, hoping Hosea would get the hint and leave it for now. Of course he didn't. There was too much at stake: their son.

"You know the power you have over Arthur. You say jump and he says how high. That boy's done everything to please you since he was a kid. And here you are..."

"Here I am, what?" Dutch growled.

"You're using him!"

"I'm appalled that you think that little of me, old friend."

"Oh shut that damn mouth of yours, Dutch, and use your head for two seconds. Has Arthur ever said no to you?"

"Of couse he has. What kind of--"

"I mean, really, has he? When it was something that meant a lot to you?"

Dutch opened his mouth, but realized with a cold wash of dread, that Hosea was on to something. Arthur might gripe about whatever job Dutch sent him out on, but when it mattered, he was always Dutch's yes man. 

"He'd rather cut his own hand off than disappoint you," Hosea spit, "and he nearly has simply because he thought he did!"

Dutch shut his mouth. Shit. Shit shit shit. That couldn't be it could it? That couldn't be...but then again, Arthur didn't make a move until Dutch spelled out his intentions. He felt himself deflate, all the air and all the fight leaking out of him.

"It ain't healthy," Hosea continued, "and I won't let you turn him into your whore like you have your other lovers."

Dutch jerked his head up at that. "Hey!"

Hosea slammed the doors, no longer caring who heard. Dutch had already made the whole messy situation a public event.


	16. Chapter 16

Dutch burst out of his room. Damned if Hosea thought he was going to stay in there like a grounded child, tail tucked between his legs.

Hosea was gone, but John, hanging halfway over the threshold of his room, froze against Dutch's glare. Dutch ironed out his expression. Jesus. John was one of the ones he worried the most about turning on him. It would be natural, he expected, to go feral on someone when it seemed like that someone was abusing your brother. Or whatever they were now. Dutch had once caught them drunk and fist-fighting, only before he could step in to stop them, John had Arthur pinned to the ground with his tongue down his throat. Arthur, the much stronger of the two, let him. That's when Dutch knew, if he wanted Arthur or John, he could have them.

That seemed physcotic in hindsight. 

He didn't want Hosea to be right, but the more he followed those threads of attraction, the less he liked where they sprouted from.

"How is he?" John whispered, either for Arthur's sake or Jack and Abigail's, or, perhaps, in an effort to keep Dutch from tearing his throat out. There was a low hum in the back of Dutch's skull that came from lack of sleep and unsurmountable rage, a problem only a few crimes and bloody knuckles could solve. He found himself wondering if John could hear it too.

"Don't know," Dutch said. "You'll have to ask Hosea."

John nodded like he'd expected that answer, and crept the short distance to Arthur's room, saying nothing else. He greeted Hosea, because of course Hosea was back at Arthur's side, guarding him like a lamb instead of the grown, thirty-something man that he was. It made the hum in his head rise a pitch. 

He went down the stairs and out the back door, avoiding the room where the girls slept, as, with the screaming that had been going on, they probably weren't sleeping anymore. He didn't want to answer questions, didn't want to feel any more guilt. He wanted to go break some noses and steal someone's inheritance. 

But Molly was right outside the door, startling when Dutch thundered through. She dropped her cigarette and turned to watch burning in the grass, too lost in thought to bother picking it up. Dutch felt the questions coming, so he stopped her.

"Come to Saint Denis with me," he said.

Her eyes lit up.

*

"We should get a doctor to look at it."

Afternoon light flooded Arthur's eyes. He was drenched in sweat, lying in what had soaked into the mattress. His throat was dry and his stomach ached with both hunger and sickness. He rolled his head, feeling his hair sticking to his forehead.

Hosea and Miss Grimshaw had his hand unwrapped, red, inflamed skin open to the world. Even the slight breeze sweeping from his broken window hurt.

"Arthur?" Hosea asked. "How you feelin', son?"

Arthur mouthed the word 'bad', unable to get his voice working. He tried clearing his throat, tried lifting his head, but his body had taken all control away, likely deciding healing was better energy spent. 

There was a cool tin cup pressing against his lip, Hosea lifting his head up for him and turning the cup up until water slid into Arthur's mouth and lapped at the ache in his throat. He swallowed it down, sighing with relief when the cup was drained.

The first words spoken with his actual voice, as hoarse as it may have been, were words that made Hosea's eyebrows drop into a grimace. "Where's Dutch?"

"Saw him leave this morning," Miss Grimshaw said with an almost pitying tone. "Not sure where."

Arthur felt the water in his stomach souring. He didn't like the look on her face, nor Hosea's. Arthur shut his eyes, trying to remember how many people had been in the room when he decided to open his big mouth. 

Hosea and Miss Grimshaw were back to studying his hand. Arthur couldn't possibly sleep anymore, not when he knew he'd already lost half the day, but when his eyes were shut they left him alone. Usually. But not this time.

"Can you move your fingers for me, Arthur?" Hosea asked. "One at a time."

Shit.

What would they say? What would Dutch?

He curled his thumb, watching their faces. He tried to move his index finger, his middle finger, his ring finger. It was only his pinky that moved, weak and painful.

"Okay, the other ones now," Hosea said.

"I already did the other ones."

Hosea's eyes went wide.

*

He was sore from lying in bed, but hadn't the energy to move. Hosea and Miss Grimshaw left him alone when it became apparent he was struggling to hold back tears. He had ruined himself, for what? For a misunderstanding. When Hosea asked him why he'd done it, he could only say, "because it made everything else hurt less." And while that had made something unreadable rise in Hosea's expression, Arthur felt that excuse ran too hollow now. Dutch had done nothing wrong. It was Arthur who jumped to conclusions. He would never do that again.

*

Dutch had fucked up. Royally, wholey, and in every way possible. 

He allowed himself sleep at some point, and it was the clarity that came with waking that nearly stopped his heart.

Molly was naked in the sheets with him. 

She stirred as he did, stretching her legs before curling up closer, her warm skin flush against his front. Despite everything -- time already spent getting each other off and the new influx of guilt -- he felt himself stiffen. Molly giggled against his chest, canting her hips against his, letting his cock snag between her legs and slide inside. She was still wet from where he had cum inside her an hour or so ago. He was usually more careful. He gasped as he bottomed out inside her, felt his breaths grow quick as she moved. 

"Bet Arthur doesn't feel like this."

Dutch's eyes shot open, and he was shoving her away before he realized what he was doing. "Jesus fuck," Dutch cursed, falling out of the bed and crashing to the floor. 

Molly shot her head over the edge of the bed, glaring down at him. "What the hell was that, Dutch?" She snapped. 

He grabbed his shirt off the rug, scanning for his vest and pants and everything else he should have never removed. Killing someone would have been a more forgiving act. He had every intention of finding a Lemone Raider hideout and putting a bullet every last one of them. But there had been Molly, and what seemed like a good idea at the time had become one of the worst mistakes he could have made.

"Where are you goin'?" Molly said, sitting up, letting the sheets pool at her waist and expose her breasts. Dutch saw it for what it was, a weak attempt to get him back in bed. 

"We are going back to camp," Dutch said stiffly. Once again, he's be returning with empty pockets. He should have been doing something, anything, besides spending money on a hotel room for the woman he was trying to distance himself from.

"Oh, come on, Dutch. Don't you go actin' like you didn't want this. You brought me here, remember?"

God he wished he didn't. He slid into his pants and picked Molly's dress off the floor, tossing it into her lap. "Get dressed."

She rolled her eyes, but Dutch could see the hurt in the childish action. He took a breath despite the impending sense of doom. If he got back to camp late enough, people would know what they'd been doing. Arthur would know. In fact, he prayed Arthur wouldn't even see him ride up with Molly on his horse. 

"Look, I'm sorry, Miss O'Shea, but--"

"Oh, so it's Miss O'Shea now, is it?"

"This was lovely. You're stunning. You did all the right things. It's just..."

"Just what?" she snapped 

"This was a mistake."

Red began creeping up her neck and clenched jaw. "Is this about Arthur?"

"I meant it, when I said it was over between us."

"What's wrong with you?" She was screaming now, and Dutch threw his hands up in attempt to quiet her. "You broke my heart just so you could fuck some man?"

The hum was back, screeching in the back of his mind, telling him that what he couldn't talk his way out of he could always kill his way out of. He shook the thought away, terrified of it. He was so tired.

"Molly, please," Dutch said, sharper than he had intended, but of course Molly was used to his temper by now. "Don't open your mouth unless you're goddamn sure you know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I know what I'm talking out. You're a queer piece of shit!"

"Shut it!" Dutch hissed under his breath, wondering how many patrons were holed up in the rooms around them. How in the hell had he thought this would go over well? He couldn't fathom it now, how he had been so stupid. He had used her. Of course she was furious. Of course she was going to keep screaming at him all the way back to camp. Of course everyone who didn't already know of Dutch's dabbling with Arthur would connect the dots when they heard her carrying on unabashedly.

She began to cry.

Dutch collapsed on the bed next to her. "Don't do that."

"So only you can do whatever you please, then?" She bit back, frantically wiping at the tears dribbling down her chin. 

"Would you rather it be another woman?" 

She stared at the rug, sniffling. "I'd rather it be me."

Dutch felt his heart drop. "Why? I'm not worth all this."

"That's a dumb question, Dutch. How can someone stop loving another?"

"Over time," he said.

She looked at him, frowning deeper. She understood, then, that he hadn't loved her for a while. 

"I...want to go home."

Dutch nodded, bending to tug his boots on.

"My home," she finished. "My country."

Dutch had thought all his love for her dried up months ago until he realized he was going to lose her forever.

*

It had been late evening when Hosea managed to get Arthur out of bed and onto his horse. The ride wouldn't be long, he justified, and getting his hand looked at by a professional was Arthur's best chance at full recovery. They hoped. 

Arthur, spoiled by the constant assumption that he would always have two hands, couldn't quite get the hang of steering. He often shot one handed while riding, but it was usually in short bursts and never with a fever. He also, too many times, ended up flipping head first off his horse because he either wasn't paying attention to where he was going when he was in a gunfight on horseback, or he was just garbage at riding one-handed. Turned out it was the latter. 

They ended up circling back to camp so Arthur could hitch his horse and climb onto Silver Dollar. 

It was at an intersection where they saw Dutch and Molly leaving a hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it worse 😫
> 
>  
> 
> I don't ever plan these out, so sometimes they take a turn I wasn't going for, like Dutch cheating on Arthur. I had intended to start wrapping this fic up, but it seems like it's going to be a while longer before that happens. It was originally supposed to end after they hooked up at the party, hence the now unfitting name. 😅


	17. Chapter 17

Hosea didn't stop, didn't even acknowledge Dutch as they passed just a few feet away, Dutch stopping dead in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. Arthur did not want to make assumptions, promised himself he wouldn't, but their clothes were rumpled and Dutch's hair had fallen from its usual position, as if hands had been combing through it. He didn't look at Molly, couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes off Dutch until Hosea was taking them around a corner and he had no other choice. 

Arthur could feel the muscles in Hosea's shoulders drawing tighter by the second, but the older man said nothing until they were outside the doctor's office. 

"Go on in. I'll find somewhere to hitch Silver Dollar."

Arthur was relieved Hosea wasn't trying to baby him by helping him dismount, but his legs were shaking now, his head spinning. He had gripped Hosea's waist so tight that his hand had begun to bleed again. He slid off the horse and dropped heavy, knees buckling, wrists collapsing as he tried to catch himself, teeth clinking he smacked against the cobbled street. 

*

As soon as Arthur began sliding, Hosea knew he wasn't going to land right, but before he could grab him, Arthur hit the ground with a ragged, pained gasp

Hosea nearly fell along side him as he leapt off the saddle. "Jesus, Arthur, are you okay?"

His hands hovered, finally settling on the back of Arthur's head, afraid to touch anywhere else. His injured hand was pinned beneath him. 

"M'okay. Sorry. Think my foot caught on saddle blanket."

A blatant lie, but Hosea wasn't about to call him out on it. Instead he grabbed him by the shoulders and ease him on his side. The flash of bloodied bandage made his pulse skyrocket, but soon Arthur was clasping it, hiding the damage. 

He was going to fucking kill Dutch. 

It was all he could think about. Even as Arthur had been bleeding out and burning with fever, Hosea was too enraged to keep his mind from snagging on Dutch. Dutch, who had done this to their son. Dutch who cared about himself above all. Hosea had run with him the majority of his life, but had it not been for the innocents looped in with Dutch, Hosea would have left after Blackwater. All he wanted was to be sure his family would have everything they needed to live after he had passed on. He couldn't trust Dutch to keep them safe anymore, even if they did manage to get all the money out of Saint Denis Bank.

"Can you--?"

"I'm fine," Arthur snapped. And it reminded Hosea of when Arthur had been small and unable to handle his fear without lashing out. The poor boy was pale as he'd ever seen him, pale and shining with sweat. 

Hosea helped him to his feet anyway, relieved when Arthur didn't fight him. He tied Silver Dollar to a rain gutter, hoping it would be strong enough to hold if the horse got startled by the racket of the city.

The inside of the shop was dark and pleasingly quiet. Hosea filed in behind Arthur and saw the Doctor's eyes flash with recognition. Hosea was about to grab for his gun until the man spoke.

"Ah, sir, it's you," he said to Arthur. "That fellow you brought in here recovered just fine. Though he was as mad as a yellow-jacket when he realized I amputated his arm."

Arthur nodded, managing to pale even further. Hosea wasn't sure what the doctor was on about, but now he was imagining Arthur's hand being sawed from his body, as Arthur likely was too. If it came to that, Hosea knew good and well Arthur would let his hand rot and sepsis eat him alive before he had his hand amputated, even if only a few fingers still barely worked. 

"Oh, my apologies," the doctor said, motioning them to the door behind him, eyes on Arthur's hand. "You need me to look at that?"

Arthur gave a slow nod and began to follow him, glancing back at Hosea when he seemed to realize he was no longer on his heels. Hosea assumed he would wait in the shop, maybe snag some tonics off the shelf to reup their supply, but Arthur hesitated, eyes glossed with fever or fear or anguish. Maybe all three. Silently, those eyes asked, 'you're not leaving, are you?'.

Hosea started forward. "Sorry. Spaced out there for a second."

*

"Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?" The doctor said, fingers finally ending their assault on Arthur's hand. It was screaming, pain shooting all the way down his wrist and into his elbow. He had to shut his eyes at one point, sure he was about to pass out. Hosea had squeezed Arthur's good hand. He hated himself for how much relief it gave him. He was too old for this. All of this. Hurting himself and wanting someone to hold his hand when the consequences came.

He couldn't find his voice, so it was Hosea who eventually answered. "Whatever news you've got, let's hear it."

"Good news is, the ligaments aren't severed. Bad news is that they're still cut pretty deeply. While their being attached increases his chance of regaining use of his fingers, it still won't be realistically possible unless we do surgery."

Arthur sank back in the chair, ears ringing, stomach clenching.

"H-how...?" Hosea trailed off. "I mean, how much will that cost us?"

"I'd have to do some calculating, but off the top of my head, all in all, I'm guessing around $500."

Arthur shut his eyes. 

They were barely scraping by as it was. 

"You're kidding me," Hosea whispered, then louder, "You're kidding me! Have you lost your mind? We don't have that kind of money! No one but the mayor has that kind of money."

"Look," the doctor began, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the metal tray by Arthur's arm. "We're in the middle of the most advance city in America and I'm the only doctor it's got."

"So you can just charge what you damn well please?" Hosea snapped. 

"I charge based on demand. Do you know how many patients I see in a day? How many surgeries I do for people who pay? Time is money, and I'd be losing both if I took this surgery for anything less."

Arthur stood, surprised how steadily he managed it, and wandered into the hall. He could still hear Hosea shouting, wasting precious breath, an outlaw conman arguing with a certified conman. 

Whatever hope Arthur had was gone. 

He caught the receptionist with her ear against the other door to the patient room. He cleared his throat and she jumped, knocking a bowl of mints off the desk and onto the floor. 

"You got a trashcan back there?"

"Oh. Uh yes." She reached under the desk and titled the mouth of a small waste-paper basket up to him, as if expecting him to spit out gum. Instead, Arthur grabbed it with his one good hand, brought it to his face, and vomited inside.

Hosea came storming out, a string of curses rolling under his breath. Arthur put the waste basket on the desk and let Hosea lead him to the door, mints exploding into pieces under his feet. 

"I suggest you make a decision soon, sir," the doctor called after them. "The surgery should be done within a few weeks if you want your hand to heal properly."

Arthur glanced at the hand in question, realizing it was still uncovered from the exam. He was leaving a trail of fresh blood along the shop floor. 

Hosea glanced back to make sure the doctor hadn't yet made it into the shop before snagging a few tonics off a shelf and stuffing them into his pockets. He shunted the door open, the glass in its frame croaking, stopping only when they were by Silver Dollar and climbing into the saddle. 

Hosea hadn't noticed Arthur's uncovered hand, so Arthur kept it against his chest rather then around Hosea's waist, fearing what the older man would do if he felt blood leaking into his shirt. He didn't want to stop. The city was suffocating, and even the hot, damp swamp around Shady Belle was an upgrade to this place. 

But Dutch...Dutch probably had Molly in his room again. 

"We'll find a way," Hosea promised, once the noise of the city died behind them. Now they heard only alligator growls and mosquitos. "After all the mess we left behind in Valentine and Rhodes, there has to be enough in camp funds to cover the cost. I'll get the key from..." he hesitated. "I'll get the key."

Arthur lifted his head. "We can't take from the camp for a chance. The surgery may not even fix it."

"Now Arthur--"

"Don't Hosea."

He didn't want to hear any of it. Hosea would try to soften him up by telling him the majority of the camp funds were from his pocket, or that the gang would want him strong again more than anything, that they all need him. But none of those lies took away from the fact that Dutch had been saving every last penny to get them all a new life in Tahiti. He would never agree to fork over that kind of cash, even if Arthur wanted him to. And on the off chance that he did, and Arthur had the surgery, if his hand never healed it would just be another check on the list of all the reasons Arthur was more of a burden than he was worth. And right now, he was worth nothing. 

Even Dutch no longer wanted him.

"I just..." Hosea began, a few minutes later, "I'm sorry this happened."

"I did it to myself."

Hosea tensed at that.

Arthur felt his hold on his emotions slipping the closer they got to camp. Word would spread fast: Arthur had crippled himself. What a fucking idiot. Even the chores around camp required two hands. So what would people start saying behind his back? How long would it take for Dutch to set him loose?

It always happened like this. He opened his heart and it got ripped to shreds in the crossfire. Dutch never once said they would be monogamous, and still he let the idea of him and Molly crush him. He had promised Arthur another chance, but now that he had taken Molly back, would he even bother with Arthur anymore? Was he just a place holder until someone else, someone better, came along? 

Seemed like that's how it always went. 

Whatever people saw when they looked at him, it turned them away. 

"Arthur?" Hosea tried glancing back. "Are you cr--"

"No." 

He refused to let the man see him break down yet again. Just a few days ago, Hosea had gotten on to him for moping, coaxing him to cut the cord with Mary, blaming her for his downhill spirals. And Arthur had done just that. Only it hadn't fixed the real problem. Arthur was just a goddamn mess of a human. It didn't matter who walked in and out if his life. He couldn't handle shit. 

'I miss the Arthur that I know is inside you,' Hosea had said after the party, when Arthur got shitfaced because, even after Dutch basically fingered him in the Mayor's office, it only took a few minutes apart to assume it had meant absolutely nothing. 

*

Hosea didn't realize he could grow angrier. He was nearly shaking with it, feeling Arthur's hot forehead on his shoulder and tears seeping through his shirt. It felt like he'd been gut-punched, felt like he was going to kill Dutch if he didn't cool off before they got to Shady Belle. But already the roof of the old mansion was appearing on the horizon, poking above the treetops like a dark omen. 

Hosea stopped Silver Dollar. Arthur lifted his head, started to speak, but Hosea couldn't bear to hear his son's voice break with sorrow. "Let it out. Take all the time you need."

Arthur seemed stunned to silence. 

Then the choking sounds, the short gasps and ragged exhales, continued, Arthur shaking them both with near silent sobs, hands clenching tighter, shirt soaking through. The drive up to Shady Belle turned misty in Hosea's eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, voice a croaking whine that felt like needles in Hosea's heart. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Hosea desperately wanted to look back, to dismount and tug Arthur in a smothering hug. But if Arthur saw the dampness in Hosea's eyes, he would feel worse for causing Hosea pain. 

"Yes you do, Arthur. You know what's wrong, you just think you don't deserve to feel upset about those things."

"I--" he gasped, crying harder, curling against Hosea's back. 

"It's alright to be upset." 

"But I did it to myself!" He said again, voice reverberating down Hosea's spine. "I put my knife to my hand and I let Dutch...I let myself...I-" His voice broke off, overtaken by a loud sob. Finally, he was letting himself feel, Hosea realized. Only by breaking down is anything ever rebuilt. 

"Whatever you did, you did. You can't be angry at yourself for not knowing the future. You cut your hand, yes, but not with intention to do irreparable damage. Sometimes consequences are out of our hands."

Arthur began to shake harder, sobs turning to wails. Hosea kept his eyes ahead, squeezing Arthur's knee, hoping it was of some comfort. Hoping any of his words would help, maybe not now, but in the long run. 

"You're the strongest man I know, Arthur. You be been abandoned and beat and brokenhearted more than anyone should ever have to endure. You bottle it up. Don't shy away when it all finally comes out. There's no healing in that."

And then, suddenly, there was a voice behind them, just loud enough to make it over Arthur's cries. 

"What's going on?"

Dutch. 

Arthur went oddly still and utterly quiet, as if holding his breath. Hosea finally looked back as Dutch pulled the Count to a stop beside them, close. Too close. He could feel Arthur clamming up all over again. 

He wanted to punch the concern right off Dutch's face.

"Where's...? Hosea began, deciding it best to keep Molly's name out of his mouth while Arthur an open wound. Dutch's saddle was empty save for the man himself, hair still askew.

Dutch tore his eyes off Arthur, who had yet to lift his face. "I, uh, took her to the docks."

He felt Arthur shift now.

"You...? Why?"

Dutch shrugged like it was a simple answer. "She wanted to go home. I bought her a ticket for the ferry, gave her some money to make sure she gets there in one piece."

Hosea's throat when dry. "Camp money?"

"Well, I used what little I had in my pockets, but we had to come take some from the box."

Arthur actually flinched. Hosea went cold.

"How much?"

"The ferry wasn't taking her all the way. Who knows how many boats she'll have to take. I figured the gang would want one of their own to get home safely."

"Dutch," Hosea snapped. "How much?"

Arthur had twisted his head to meet Dutch's gaze, Dutch looking at him as if in disbelief that there were tears on his face. He was finally seeing the first glimmer of the destruction he caused. 

"All of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know at this point in the game we all had thousands of dollars as Arthur, but that would make things too easy.
> 
> Fun fact: Google says $500 in 1899 is like $15,000 today. 
> 
> Another fun fact: this fictional doctor is an asshole


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for the huge gap in updates! I hope this makes up for it 💕

"Have you lost," Hosea began, his body vibrating against Arthur, voice rising higher until it became a scream Arthur thought the man was no longer capable of, "your goddamn mind?!"

Dutch put his hands up. "I know it sounds bad, but it--"

"It sounds like we're all broke! What are we supposed to do now? We got people to feed, Dutch. We got--"

"A bank to rob." Dutch interrupted. "You have a plan don't you?"

Arthur had long ago tore his eyes off Dutch, but he could hear the anger boiling inside him, could feel it boiling hotter in Hosea. It was rare for Hosea to let himself get worked up. That made it all the more frightening when he did.

"Of course I have a plan! What do you think I've been doing this whole time, chasing tail? Oh wait, no, that was you."

"I've been--"

"I know exactly what you been doing!" Hosea's voice cracked with a cough. "She's on a boat with all our money!"

Alright. Arthur had heard enough. Be damned if he bled out on the way, he was walking home. 

He slid off Silver Dollar, better prepared to catch himself when he's weakened knees buckled. He couldn't be sure if it was fever or blood loss that had turned him so weak. Perhaps it was the sting in his heart. 

"The bank will have more than enough to...Arthur?"

He winced. Hearing his name in Dutch's mouth was at once euphoric and agonizing. He kept walking, hearing Hosea's footsteps just behind him. He had dismounted as soon as Arthur's boots hit the ground, probably figuring he had fallen off.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Hosea asked, tone missing the hellfire it held for Dutch. 

"I'm tired. Going to camp."

"Okay, son, just get back on the horse and I'll get us there."

"Nah."

"Arthur." Now he sounded appalled, like Arthur was a little kid refusing to eat the way Jack sometimes did when he needed attention.

He waved his hand, carrying on toward Shady Belle. Hosea had not watched him this closely even after the O'driscolls got through with him, and that had been a much worse affair. 

"I'm fine," he growled when Hosea refused to let up. 

Then Dutch stopped him in the way Dutch did best: by commanding him.

"Arthur, get get up here. Now." 

A shiver went down his spine. He managed to keep his face neutral as Dutch brought the Count to a stop in front of him. 

"I can fucking walk."

Oh Jesus. He couldn't even try to hide his resentment. It came out in every syllable, Dutch's face contorting from serious to hurt by the time it was all out. 

"I didn't ask you," he said. 

Arthur growled under his breath and climbed into the saddle behind Dutch, ignoring the smear of blood he left on the Count's flank and Hosea's angry silence 

It felt good to have his arms around Dutch, even though his hair and clothes smelled like Molly. Like sweat and sex. Felt good to shut his eyes and pretend he never saw him stepping out of that hotel. Arthur was such a fool for ever thinking he had received special treatment by the stay in Valentine's hotel. It was just what Dutch did, apparently, when he didn't want anyone to see who he was screwing. 

"Let me off at the gate," Arthur muttered. He didn't want to be seen pressed close to Dutch, even if everyone already expected it by his own admission. It would only add fuel to the fire. Would only make Arthur look like a fool considering Dutch had Molly on his horse last time he left. 

"Why don't you have that thing bandaged?" Dutch said instead of agreeing. 

"The doctor took it off."

"You went to a doctor?"

Arthur didn't bite. What had he to say except that the only hope he had was now in Molly's pocket? Not that he would have dared take it the way she had. He knew that there were far more important people relying on it to survive. 

Dutch would ask someone to go hunting so they could at least eat in the coming week. Arthur couldn't even draw his bow anymore. Couldn't for damn sure rob a bank. They might as well leave him behind when they managed to get a boat. Let him rot in Annesburg with all the injured coal miners, desperate but incapable. 

"Well, can you at least tell me why the doctor didn't bandage it back up?" Dutch asked eventually. 

"Because, frankly Dutch, I've had my fill of other people's bickerin' to last me a thousand lifetimes, so I left him and Hosea alone to scream at each other." The gate to Shady Belle was swimming into view. John stood between it, gun in his arms, straightening when he noticed the Count. "What's goin' on with you and Hosea?" Arthur continued before Dutch could continue his own line of questions. "Ain't never seen you two fight like this. What's it all about?"

"You." Dutch said, and Arthur grimaced. "And me."

Right. 

Hosea had been in the room when Arthur had confessed.

That meant all of this arguing was his fault. 

"I need you to understand something," Dutch said, voice going lower as they drew closer to John. "I had not intended to sleep with her."

"Doesn't matter your intention. You did it." Arthur ground his teeth, despising how pathetic he sounded, how injured he was by Dutch simply being Dutch. The man did what he wanted, how he wanted, because it was his say that kept you in the gang or starving on the street. 

"It was a mistake," Dutch went on. "I seem to be making a lot of those lately."

John kept his eyes trained on Arthur, shifting between his feet, face drawn and finger lax on the trigger. 

"Please," Dutch whispered. "Forgive me."

Arthur shut his eyes, taking a moment to feel the breeze on his face and nothing else except the sting in his palm that refused to be ignored. 

"I can't bear to lose you," Dutch continued. "Please, Arthur. I...I care about you a great deal."

"Then why did you do it?" He was being unfair and he knew it. Dutch had been Molly's before Arthur's, had never promised he wouldn't sleep around. But Arthur was still hurt. Still confused. Still questioning his worth. 

"Because I knew I was losing her."

"But that's what you wanted."

"You're right," Dutch said. "But I'll still miss her and what we had when it was good. It was unhealthy, the way we were. But even darkness can be missed during the day."

Arthur wasn't sure what to feel about that. Part of him was relieved, the other part wounded. Dutch didn't want her around, but it seemed he still adored her in a way he might never adore Arthur.

Did that matter anymore? 

The gang no longer had use for him. He wouldn't be around much longer. 

"Welcome back," John called, though there didn't seem to be much welcome in his expression. "Where's Miss O'Shea?"

Neither of them answered. Dutch brought the Count to a stop in front of him, titling his head back at Arthur. "John, take Arthur and help him get his hand bandaged. Hosea and I have some planning to do."

Arthur lurched off the horse, frowning when his knees buckled. He righted himself, brushing John's hovering hands away.

"We're really robbing that bank?" John asked.

"Don't sound so worried, son. We're professionals."

*

"Would you let me do this, dammit?"

"That's too tight. I'm gonna lose my fingers at this rate."

John huffed. Normally, he would have given up by now, but it was obvious Arthur couldn't quite wrap the bandage himself, and there was something else too...something vulnerable in his expression that John could only compare to an injured deer. 

"You're such a goddamn baby," he said instead of storming off toward the crate of beer everyone else was partaking in. 

"And you're a damned awful doctor," Arthur bit back.

John heard the first few chords of one of Javier's favorite songs, those gathered around the fire quieting to listen. John and Arthur sat on the side porch, far enough away to talk privately for the first time in a while, yet John found all the words he wanted to say sticking in his throat.

So he said, "so you're fucking Dutch?"

Arthur's distant expression snapped into focus, fury burning behind the blue-green eyes. He stood to leave, but John tightened his hold on his wrist, holding him in place. 

"You already told me," John said. "Well, you told Molly. I just--"

"You just what John?"

"...How long?"

Maybe it was the wariness in his voice that got Arthur to relax. Maybe it was the upward pull of his eyebrows. Arthur used to say he could pout like a kicked dog. John assumed Arthur only complained about it because it worked on him. 

Arthur ran his good hand down his face hard enough to leave white streaks behind. "I know what you're thinking, and it ain't true."

"You don't know--"

"I never cheated on you." 

John lost his nerve and tore his eyes away, focusing instead on Arthur's hand and the pit widening in his gut. He was too easy to read. It infuriated him. "Please! You think I'm-"

"Jealous? You sure been actin like it."

John rolled his eyes. "You fucking wish."

"No, I don't."

John risked a glance up, stomach clenching at Arthur's new expression, one of warning. 

"You finally got Abigail to let you in her room and in her heart, which you done shattered too many times. Don't screw it up."

"Wasn't going to." John felt his face twisting into a pout. He couldn't stop it. "Besides, I'm, uh...well, I guess I'm mostly just worried."

"You ain't gotta worry about me."

"I know that but..." but that didn't stop John from seeing Arthur begging Dutch not to touch him every time he closed his eyes. He'd never seen Arthur in such a state. Hammered down by fever and blood loss and scared out of his mind. That was not the Arthur he knew, and he couldn't help but worry if that was just how Arthur was under Dutch's "care."

He finished wrapping Arthur's hand, but before letting go and pretending like their conversation never happened, he said, "is he...good to you?"

Arthur stared at the bandage, seemingly unaware that John was done. They could hear Hosea and the man in question inside the house, arguing over a plan. 

"He's...Dutch."

"So, not good then?" John asked, the joke sounding too serious for his liking. But Dutch had his own special way with his lovers, and it never ended well. Molly was a perfect example of that. 

"I think--I thought this was different. I don't know. It's hard to think right now."

John released his hand and Arthur drew it to his chest. "You should eat something."

"I'm not sure if I can."

John's chest tightened. It was odd enough for them to talk amicably these days, ever since John left without a word and had the gall to turn back up, but it was even stranger for Arthur to be so openly defeated. 

"I'll get you some stew. Just so long as you remember you can take Dutch in a fight if need be.

Arthur managed a laugh. "I ain't gonna fight 'im."

"Well, whatever you need to do, just don't let him push you around like he does all his other women."

Arthur laughed again, harder, and John felt some of the weight ease off his shoulders. "Shut up, John."

*

Arthur woke to his palm throbbing and a lost sense of time. He rolled over, groaning, taking in the empty room, the quiet house, the moon high enough over Shady Belle to cast him in near-total darkness. Sweat clung to his forehead. Even the hot bayou breeze felt cold against his fevered skin. 

Someone had left water by his bed and, assuming it had been Hosea, Arthur silently thanked the old man. He was glad to have some privacy, to moan and groan and curse his hand in peace, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss Hosea's quiet presence watching over him. It had reminded Arthur of the old days, days so long ago that they felt more like dreams than memories. It reminded him that he was loved. Perhaps Hosea was now seeing that there was nothing left of Arthur to love. 

A sudden chill sweeping down his spine, he slunk out of bed and kneeled before his chest of clothes, thinking of getting a coat until it occured to him that he shouldn't unpack anymore than he already had. 

In fact...

He gathered his satchel off the floor and filled it with a few boxes of ammo, buried some canned food in his clothing chest, took the picture of him, Hosea, and Dutch off the shelf where Dutch had placed it after Arthur's fit and folded it to fit inside his journal. 

It occured to him only after that they may not let him keep his wagon. He might only have his horse to lug his belongings to wherever he would head off to. So he moved a few cans into his satchel along with a jacket. It was all that would fit. He'd have to make due. 

But he didn't want to. Didn't want to leave. Didn't want to lose his family. His purpose. Out there in the real world, there was nothing to do but slave away and die early. Here, there was hope. A reason to wake up in the morning. Freedom. Dutch. 

Something warm tickled his cheek, his hand coming back wet as he wiped the sensation away. He did not want to shed tears over the inevitable, but there was so much to lose and not enough time in the world to mourn it all. He buried his face in his hands.

"Arthur?"

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him into silencing his gasps. Dutch's knees popped as he kneeled down beside him. 

"What's wrong?" Dutch whispered. "What are you...are you going somewhere?"

Arthur choked on whatever words had tried making their way up. A frigid hand landed on his forehead.

"You're burning up," Dutch said. "Let's get you back in bed."

"Broken."

"What?"

"It's b--I'm broken."

Dutch stopped trying to pull him off the floor. "What are you talking about?"

Arthur lifted his bandaged hand, keeping his head down. "I cant use my fingers."

"It needs time to heal." Dutch slipped his arms under Arthur's, drawing him to his feet. 

"Doctor said-"

"Shh. I need you to take a breath for me."

Arthur hadn't realized how dizzy he was, how breathless, until Dutch was counting the seconds he needed to spend on each inhale and exhale, slowly draping him across the bed all the while. 

"That's it." The mattress dipped as Dutch lowered himself on its edge, one hand curling around Arthur's cheek, the other rubbing slow circles on Arthur's chest. "Take it slow."

"I...I'm sorry."

"Hush with that nonsense."

Arthur felt himself shaking, from a chill or sorrow, he wasn't sure. Either way, Dutch gave a quiet, "may I?" before crawling into bed and wrapping warm arms around Arthur's waist. 

Arthur gave a shaky sigh against Dutch's neck, allowing himself a few moments of memory loss, reverting to days ago when he'd had Dutch all to himself at their old campsite, the man stripped naked and riding Arthur's cock. The mental images made him twitch inside his union suit. 

"You're going to be fine," Dutch said. "We're all going to be fine."

He no longer smelled like Molly, but like himself, freshly washed with a hint of cigar smoke. Arthur pressed his lips to Dutch's pulse point and felt him stiffen in surprise.

"Arthur?"

"I..." he swallowed thickly, wishing for another glass of water. "I'm sorry she's gone."

Dutch hesitated, gasping when Arthur dug his teeth into Dutch's neck. "I'm not."

Arthur let his hand wander to the hem of Dutch's shirt, slipping his hand beneath and rubbing the firm planes of the man's stomach, sucking on the spot he had bit. Dutch hummed under his breath.

"I've wanted you for so long," Dutch said. "Only you. Is that still possible after what I've done?"

Arthur pulled back, wiping his lips on his shoulder. "I ain't got nothing left to give."

"You don't need to give me anything. You're perfect the way you are."

Arthur snorted. "You always were a charmer."

"I'm only saying what I feel, Arthur." He rolled his head to look him in the eye. "I don't deserve you."

"Dutch."

"I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry for everything. For hurting you. For leaving with her. For--"

Arthur closed the space between them and pressed their lips together, Dutch's words muffling, Arthur opening his mouth just to bite down on Dutch's bottom lip.

Dutch arched his back, trying to find Arthur's lower body with his own, his lips following where Arthur's led. Arthur slid on top of Dutch, groaning when he felt Dutch's hardness, shifting to rub his own against it.

Fingers laced into Arthur's hair, gentle, as gentle as the lips he was so viciously attacking. Arthur broke the kiss, gasping. Dutch let his fingers rest on the first closed button of Arthur's union suit. 

Arthur gave the go-ahead by ripping Dutch's shirt open, hearing a torn button clatter across the floor. He scooted down, latching his teeth to Dutch's nipple, cheeks warming at the moan Dutch gave. He ran his tongue down his sternum and into his happy trail, grinning at the way Dutch twisted for contact. Arthur had never been much for teasing, but the sounds of frustration Dutch was making made him reconsider. He pinned Dutch's arms to the bed, mouthing over his clothed cock, feeling it leap against his teeth. 

"You're awfully pliant." Arthur said, voice low and rough.

Dutch just swallowed, loud enough for Arthur to hear. Arthur laughed at that, looking up to gather Dutch's wrists together above the man's head, his useless hand holding them against the mattress while his good one popped open Dutch's empty gunbelt and undid the fly of his trousers. He smiled at the black fabric of Dutch's union suit popping out of the fly. He pressed a kiss to Dutch's hard-on through the last layer, hearing Dutch suck in a sharp breath.

Then came, "Arthur." And the sound of his name, the plea laced in the one word, went straight to Arthur's cock. Dutch. Begging him. 

Arthur sat up, undoing the buttons of his own union suit that Dutch hadn't got to, freeing his heavy cock and standing to pull the suit completely off. He swayed and Dutch started to sit up, started to hold Arthur steady, but Arthur shoved him back down and straddled his chest, inching up until his cock was against Dutch's stubbled cheek. 

"Suck," Arthur demanded.

There was no argument. Dutch opened his mouth and swallowed Arthur down.

Arthur moaned, biting his knuckle to quiet down. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Dutch van der Line was doing as he said, was swirling his tongue along the base of his cock and swallowing against the tip. Last time this happened, his senses had been dulled by drink, it seemed, because now firecrackers were going off beneath his skin, exploding in his stomach, sparking off the nerves locked inside Dutch's mouth.

He wanted to cum right then and there. Was already so close. Wanted to hear Dutch choke on his spend. But he pulled away, groaning at the sight of saliva clinging from Dutch's lips to Arthur's swollen cock. 

Arthur freed Dutch of his pants. 

"On your stomach," Arthur said. 

This time, Dutch hesitated. 

He knew by now Arthur wanted to bottom for him, but Arthur wasn't quite sure he was ready to try again. Instead, he wanted to put Dutch in his place. Wanted to show him that just because Arthur generally wanted to be fucked didn't mean he was going to be submissive to Dutch's bullshit. 

So when Dutch didn't do it himself, Arthur flipped the man on his stomach and sat on the back of his legs. Dutch moaned something into the pillow, lifting his hips so Arthur got a glimpse of his delicious hole.

Arthur leaned to grab his satchel off the floor and popped a canister of oil open, dipping his fingers inside only to do the same between Dutch's cheeks, grinning to himself when a slicked finger slipped easily inside.

"You finger-fuck yourself often, Dutch?" He asked, receiving a long moan as he added a second finger, pistoning them in and out before Dutch could get used to it. 

"You pretend to be all big and bad, but you just want someone to fuck you silly, don't you?"

"Arthur," Dutch growled, and this time it was a warning. So Arthur added a third finger, growing impatient. 

"Don't be embarrassed, Dutch. I'll make you feel good."

He removed his fingers and oiled his cock, rutting between Dutch's cheeks before pushing himself inside. Dutch screamed into the pillow, fingers clenching the sheets. Arthur lay his body flush against Dutch's, kissing the back of his neck.

"Ready?"

Dutch pushed his hips up, lifting his head from the pillow. "Just fuck me already!"

"Now, that ain't very nice of you. You better ask me nicer than that."

Dutch groaned, pushing his hips back and rutting against the mattress. Arthur shifted all his weight onto him so he couldn't move. "Goddamn it. Fuck. Please. Please, Arthur. Please ruin me."

"Of course, darlin'." Arthur pressed one last kiss between Dutch's shoulder blades before pounding into him.

"Fuck!" Dutch cried, spreading his legs a little wider, burying his face deeper into the pillow, gasping Arthur's name between gut-punching thrusts. 

Sweat trickled down Arthur's back. He'd already been overheated. Now it felt like his brain was ready to burst into flames. The room spun, so he closed his eyes, focusing on the tight grip of Dutch's asshole, on the man's barely restrained screams, on the coiling heat twisting in his belly and shooting to his balls. He was going to cum if he didn't let up, but Dutch was now begging him not to stop.

"Please, Arthur. Fuck yes, that feels so good."

Arthur settled his weight on his knees and pulled Dutch up onto all fours, grabbing his cock with his good hand and slamming into him with abandon, desperately searching for the one spot he knew would get Dutch to completion in seconds. Jerking Dutch furiously, he pushed Dutch onto his elbows, edging closer with the sight of his face in the mattress and ass in the air. 

Arthur's hips started stuttering just as Dutch screamed the loudest yet, loud enough to leech through the walls, his hole tightening around Arthur. Arthur thrust again, hard, hitting the same spot head on if Dutch's moan was any indication. 

"Please, Arthur, I'm so close."

"Then cum."

Dutch whimpered into his hand, Arthur jerking him faster, fucking him harder, ready to bust at the sounds alone.

And then Dutch's entire body was convulsing. Cum painted Arthur's hand, muscles squeezed his dick, Dutch called his name like he was God himself, and then Arthur was spilling inside him, screaming just as loud, eyes rolling in the back of his head and white blotting his vision as orgasm crashed through him. He emptied everything he had inside Dutch, relishing the feeling, gasping for air that wouldn't come, reaching for something to ground him through all the pleasure. He thrust through the last few surges, twitching with giddiness when he couldn't go any longer. He slipped out of Dutch, feeling his cum spilling out with him.

Dutch went boneless, heaving against the bed, hair askew and hole red and used. It filled Arthur with pride. He lay beside Dutch, heart hammering with relief when Dutch rolled to rest his head on Arthur's chest. 

Arthur ran his hand through Dutch's hair, trying to put it in its usual place, and pressed a kiss to his hairline. He noticed Dutch had shut his eyes, so he did the same, for the first time in days unafraid to let sleep drag him under. 

"I think I saw God," Dutch said eventually, voice trembling. 

Arthur smiled. "You sure called on him enough."


End file.
